#Down the Hole Drilling Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

frvnkcastles · 4 months ago

Text

LIKE HEAVEN ABOVE ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: After Frank saves your life, you’re there for him through thick and thin.

Warnings: Violence, language, feminine nicknames, implied smut, mentions of death, reader is a teacher, reader wears glasses

Word count: 5.6k (wow)

Author’s note: Omggg y’all, I dug this up from my Pages app, it’s literally almost 3 years old and that’s why I’m a little nervous to post it but I thought it might actually be some of my best writing, so here we go :) It takes place through Daredevil season 2 all the way to the end of The Punisher Season 1, and I have to admit, I honestly feel like Frank was NOT ready for any kind of love interest during Daredevil but I took some creative liberties, anyway. So this is a little out of character on that front. I’m rambling, I hope you enjoy!! I’m gonna get back to your requests soon <3

Frank felt like somehow days passed by in a flurry yet every second dragged on like the worst torture he had endured — which was saying a lot considering the literal war he had gone through, and the fact he was currently lying in a hospital bed; broken, bruised and with a drilling hole in his foot. And yet waiting to see you was the one thing that got his confidence to falter, his brain to shortcircuit.

For a man so stubborn and determined to do things on his own, he had crumbled so fast when presented with the opportunity to see you again. He hadn’t even realized he had ended up caring about you so deeply, not until the blonde journalist had stepped into his room and the words just poured out of him.

”Would ya do me a favour?” Frank asked as the woman was leaving the room, his gruff voice so uncharacteristically meek and vulnerable, and therefore capable of turning her head immediately. ”Please”, he added weakly, ”my girl… I—there’s someone I need to see. Just once. Please.”

Maybe she was curious about meeting the one person who seemed to mean anything to The Punisher anymore; maybe she felt surprisingly bad for him or maybe it was both, but Karen found herself doing as he asked and tracked you down. She reached out and a few days later… you were walking down the hallways of the hospital, uncomfortably shifting the weight of your leather jacket from one arm to the other, your stomach churning in nervous anticipation.

The sight of several armed guards standing outside the room you were being walked to made you gulp, but you weren’t scared of the man inside. You were scared to see the kind of condition he was in, to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, scared of the moment you’d have to walk out in the uncertainty if you’d ever see him again. But not him. Never him.

Something in Frank came to life when you appeared at the doorway; something he thought to be long dead and buried only for you to always revive him. He lifted his head from the worn pillows and sighed in some kind of relief, only for guilt to lodge into his heart when he saw you scanning his body.

He looked awful, no way around it. Littered in bruises so severe you could barely see his face, you struggled not to cry while looking at the multiple machines connected to him and the abundance of bandages on his tired limbs. What really got to you, though, was the handcuffs on his wrists and the straps across his chest and stomach to make sure there was no room for him to move any more than necessary to sit up and lie back down.

”Jesus…”, you sighed breathlessly, your hands beginning to shake as you walked over to him with a frown so deep it hurt his heart. He knew he might have been a selfish asshole for dragging you here, for making you see what he had tried to protect you from this whole time, for letting you get attached right before it would all go to shit, anyway. But he wasn’t strong enough to push you away. He was capable of enduring much, but he was weak when it came to you. He had tried it, at first, keeping you at arm’s length but you got under his skin in a way that was irreversible and it hurt more to resist than it did to give in. For him, anyway.

”Looks worse than it is, sweetheart”, he rasped, and with a scoff, you finally met his eyes only for the depth of them to catch you off-guard and make you choke on your own tongue. He looked just as attentive and kind as the day you had met him — you swore you’d never forget the way he had hid you behind the counter of the diner, looked right into your eyes and promised he’d make sure you’d make it to class tomorrow; what would the kids do without their teacher, after all?

”They said your foot was… that there was a…”, you stammered, hoping to counter his words with an argument that failed as soon as you tried to get it out. He had never judged you for your tendency to stutter, though, and he didn’t do it now, either. Simply nodded and let you process.

”Yeah. Yeah, there was”, he admitted quietly, licking his split lips as he watched you move to the chair next to his bed and slowly sink down. Even with all the pain in your eyes, you looked so beautiful in one of your worn band shirts and the skirt you had promptly tucked it into, your glasses heavy on your nose and the shimmer of your lipbalm like a red thread for Frank to hang onto like his life depended on it. Amidst all the chaos and ache of his recent weeks, he could just close his eyes and think back to you, and somehow he felt at peace. At least for a second.

”I wish I could… make it all better”, you whispered sadly, a lone tear rolling down your cheek as you looked at his bruised cheekbones.

Frank’s hand reached for yours only for the handcuffs to stop him, the noise of the movement alerting the guard outside the door and pulling a swear from Frank. When he settled his hand back by his side, the guard seemed to relax a little, making both of you sigh — the man wasn’t even allowed to hold your hand.

”Oh, sweetheart”, Frank whispered, ”that’s exactly what you do. You make all this shit better.” He managed a small smile as he tilted his head at you. ”I may just make it worse, but you? Christ, you…”, he struggled to put his thoughts into words, keeping you on your toes as he finally decided against it, ”I’preciate you comin’. I just, uh, I guess I wanted to see you before I get dragged into a courtroom and… yeah. Yeah, there’s no happy ending for me. But for a moment there, you helped me believe there might be”, he went on, only breaking your heart with each word.

You wiped your eyes and chuckled softly. ”You don’t give yourself enough credit, Frankie. You’ve really made things better for me, too. And you deserve a happy ending, however that might look for you”, you swore, casting your eyes at your trembling hands. ”I know it might be weird to say, but I’m grateful I met you. Life-threatening danger and all. You and everyone else may not see it the same way, but you are a good guy. You are”, you continued before sniffling and getting up from your chair enough to press a kiss on his forehead.

You were careful and gentle, unwilling to hurt him any more than he had already been hurt. Yet when you moved to pull away, Frank grunted and reached for your wrist, stopping you from leaving. For a moment, you were forehead to forehead, your lips inches away and his breath mixing with yours.

”Sit with me for a bit? Yeah?” Frank pleaded, and when you nodded, he swallowed and smiled weakly. ”That’s my girl.”

He didn’t see you again until the trial. He spotted you right there in the benches, dressed in your finest red shirt that had his thoughts running a million miles while being walked to the stand. He was dressed in a suit, too, and he almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculous thought of a date swirling in his head. Maybe, in another lifetime, that could have been reality — not him being on trial for murder with you trying to tune out the hate speech spewed at him from the other half of the courtroom.

Most of his bruises had healed by then. You found small comfort in that.

You didn’t get to tell him he looked good, though. You didn’t get to say a single thing when he was announcing his guilt with a booming roar, and the next thing you knew, he was being walked out of the courtroom with a prison sentence looming over his head. You didn’t blame him for doing what he did, and you certainly didn’t expect him to choose you over his morals. But nevertheless, you couldn’t help but cry as he was taken out of sight and you were left with the realization you may never see him again.

You were sitting outside on the steps of the courthouse when a strange hand extended a tissue for you. Just as you looked up, nearly blinded by the sunshine, you were glad you hadn’t said your thought out loud when you saw Frank’s lawyer poke his cane at the steps until he figured where to sit. He lowered himself next to you just as you took the tissue and thanked him for his kindness.

”You’re the woman”, he stated matter-of-factly, and when you turned to him in confusion, he chuckled quietly. ”I recognize your perfume. It… stuck to him”, he explained — even if his explanation remained vague — but you had no time to present any further questions when he continued. ”Frank Castle is not a talkative man. But I’ve noticed whenever he does speak, his words carry meaning. He doesn’t do small talk or state the obvious, he… he only shares what he considers important. And if that is the case, then… you are extremely important to him”, he elaborated before drawing in a deep breath and sending a small smile your way.

Your heart both broke and leaped at his words. You hadn’t exactly doubted it, but it meant a great deal to know Frank cherished you as much as you cherished him.

”And he is to me”, you returned quietly, pulling a slow nod from the man — Matt — who then turned his head at you curiously.

”If you don’t mind me asking… how does a teacher find herself with The Punisher?” he wondered, and considering it your turn to chuckle, you turned to your hands and recalled the night that had turned your life upside down.

”He saved my life. I know that’s how all the cliché fairytales go, but he did. I was at my favorite diner to get some grilled cheese after a long day of work. I was so close to making it, too, when these, uh, thugs came in. Looking for him, unsurprisingly. There was only one other person besides us and they managed to escape before the shooting began, so… Frank hid me behind the counter. He told me he’d keep me safe, that I’d get to see the kids I teach again the next day— he’d heard me talking to the cashier. He’d make sure of it. And he did. He took care of those guys and afterwards he walked me home. I—I owed him my life so I figured the least I could do was ice his knuckles. He must have been barely ten minutes in my apartment but it meant everything. We just… couldn’t get rid of each other after that”, you explained, the sunlight suddenly feeling warmer on your skin and the smile on your lips so free of worry. For a second, anyway.

Matt listened intently — not only to what you were saying, but you. And it didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion. ”You love him”, he declared, and with your head snapping towards him, you frowned.

”We haven’t—there’s nothing—”, you began, your stutter seeping through again, and Matt smiled.

”Whether or not you’ve acted on it, I can hear it. You’ve fallen in love with him”, he emphasized before humming, ”and I think, somewhere deep down underneath all that trauma and guilt and unwillingness to face the facts… he feels the same way.”

You stared at him, disbelief all over your face as you thought about Frank and all your brief touches, all your sweet words and reassuring looks.

”Could you tell him I’ll be right here? Please? Just… let him know that even if I can’t be by his side, he’s not alone”, you whispered, and although he seemed to consider it for a second, Matt ended up nodding.

”I’m sure he’s gonna need that.”

And he wasn’t wrong. Prison was no easy feat, not even for The Punisher.

He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to you. One moment he was sitting in court, listening to his vigilante of a lawyer speak on his behalf, and the next he was being dragged out in chains with your worried face amongst the angry civilians being the last thing he saw. And the big bad Punisher had gone so far as to beg Karen to let him see you for the second time; let you see him, but before she could even consider making it happen, he had been shoved into a white onesie and sent on his way to prison with his jagged memories trying hard to recall the last words you had spoken to him.

It had been something kind — that much he had decided on while sitting in his cell. You were always so fucking kind, and so understanding, even when he doubted he deserved it. You were a good person; a troubled one but you had weathered every storm and stuck to your morals, and he admired that to no end. You didn’t have a judgmental bone, not a single ounce of hatred for anyone who didn’t deserve it, sometimes not even those who did. He thought that maybe he was unworthy of your friendship and sympathy sometimes, but you gave it to him anyway, without question and without expectation. You liked him for who he was, not who he had been, and you didn’t try to change his mind and steer his path.

At least he had the message Red had passed onto him to keep him going.

It was those unexplainably good-hearted intentions of yours and the unconditional support he hadn’t realized he missed so much, that made him fall in love with you. He struggled with it for a while, wondering if he was ready; if he should have felt guilty, but eventually the desire to keep you safe and the longing to hold you close became too evident to ignore.

And he truly knew when one of the assholes he had put down had taunted him about his lady, only for his mind to go to you instead of Maria.

He had been writing a letter to you when his heart-pouring onto paper was interrupted by a taunting laugh outside his cell. ”Writing a love letter to your lady?” one of the gang members in his block teased, and with a grit in his teeth, Frank forced himself to not pick a fight — a successful attempt until the burly man went on. ”Would be a shame if anyone got their hands on your girl now that you ain’t out there to protect—”, he continued, his words cut off with a wheeze when Frank clamored out of his seat and promptly stabbed the pen into his neck. It was a good thing he had already signed the letter.

Realistically, he knew it may have been an empty threat. Nonetheless, as soon as he was out of prison, the letter tucked in the pocket of his jacket, he made his way to you. Making you were safe was priority number one — and if he’d get the chance to hand over the envelope and open his heart to you… Well, that would just be the cherry on top. He had promised to get out and tell you how he felt, to stop being a coward and admit that he wanted to be there for you, that he loved you, and that was exactly what he planned on doing.

Although, things never went exactly as planned.

He had so much determination and courage in his heart when he knocked on your door, but as soon as you opened it and your short figure appeared right in front of him, it all drained from his system. All he was left with was bare amazement and the reserved hope that you’d still welcome him into your home — he knew he had burned more than enough bridges with his little stunt in court, and he had spent many sleepless nights wondering if he had scared you off, too. That worry only now flared into a genuine fear as he watched astonishment wipe across your face, his own expression meek and his large body trying to shrink on itself to seem less intimidating.

”Hey, sweetheart”, he managed, his voice raspy as ever, his dark eyes scanning your face and trying to make sense of the speechless trance you had been stunned into.

It was justified, of course. Who would expect a convicted criminal on their doorstep?

That wasn’t exactly what was on your mind, though. You had never doubted that Frank would get back up somehow; he couldn’t be kept down — but you couldn’t believe he had come to you. A man like him surely had places to be, people to kill, things to do and somehow… he was right there in front of you in all his glory, not bleeding out and in need of stitches, either. Just… there.

You didn’t realize how emotional the sight of him had gotten you until you opened your mouth and the words escaped you with a choke. ”Is it okay if I hug you?” you cracked, and with a deep, even relieved sigh, Frank let his tense shoulders drop and his head bob in a nod as he opened his arms.

He welcomed you gladly, his big arms winding around your smaller body to encompass you against his entirely. He realized then that you were wrapped up in one of the hoodies he had left behind, his confidence boosting but his heart breaking just a little at the thought of you sitting at home alone in his clothes, comforted by his scent and wondering if he’d ever come back to you. And right there and then, he knew he had made the right choice in doing so.

”I missed you”, you whispered into his chest, your heart doing somersaults at the firmness of it, your eyes fallen shut as you breathed him in and basked in his warmth and all his rough edges that only confirmed he was real and not a figment of your imagination, not a daydream, even if he had occupied nearly all of them for the past months.

”Missed ya too, girl”, he muttered into your hair, and as he held you there, grateful to have you again, the doubt began creeping in and the letter in his pocket started to seem like a bad idea. What if it would simply push you away, just when he got you in his arms?

Swallowing, he then decided maybe it was better not to bring it up.

”Hey, I, uh…”, he cleared his throat when you stepped back to welcome him into your apartment. He treaded carefully, like any second now you’d change your mind and turn him away — and he wouldn’t blame you, either. Trouble followed him wherever he went, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from coming to you every time. ”Look, there’s… a lot going on, y’know? Some shit might go down and I just…”, he continued, uncertain of his own words as his gaze fell to the nervously fiddling hands in front of him, ”I don’t want ya to look at the news and rethink the kinda guy I am, y’know?”

Chuckling, you shook your head at him. ”The news couldn’t change my mind about you, Frankie”, you reassured in a way that had his chest tightening. ”You’re my friend and—and a good guy, even if with… unique methods. But you are. Just because you have blood on your hands, doesn’t make you a bad man”, you went on, but he could tell you were nervous, too. He just couldn’t see past himself enough to understand it wasn’t fear making you tremble.

”I think you are loyal and sweet and protective and… capable of making people feel safe and appreciated. When I’m with you, I feel respected and understood. Never judged or unsafe”, you added, and with an amazed twinkle in his dark eyes, Frank looked up at you. Jesus, that was exactly how he felt around you. His lungs and throat were screaming at him to just tell you, but instead, he gave you a doubtful tilt of his head.

”You’re not scared?” he confirmed quietly, and with a small smile, you gave him a look.

”I’m not scared of you, Frank. I’m…”, you breathed in, hesitating before widening your smile and shaking your head, ”I’m not scared.” What you really wanted to tell was that you were nervous because you liked him — loved him. But you never felt threatened by him.

”Good”, he swallowed, defiance suddenly ablaze in his eyes as he seemed to relax. ”’Cause I’d never hurt ya. Shit, you make me wanna…”, he laughed, unsure where he was going with that thought. ”I just wanna keep you safe, sweetheart. Look after you”, he finished with a sigh, the kind that knew he was officially in too deep. You got him good.

”Then I’ll look after you, too”, you promised, gesturing at his hands, ”starting with those knuckles of yours.”

He was almost amused, but when you seriously dug a small tube of hand cream from your bag and began rubbing the lotion onto his bruised hands, all he could do was stare at you, completely enamored by your kindness and the feeling of your gentle hands tending to his damaged ones.

It was almost ironic, really — you were gentle, he was damaged. In your mind, it was the other way around, and maybe that was why it worked. You were different in so many ways but the bare essentials were still there, making you an undeniable match even if neither of you were brave enough to say it out loud right now. But him being in your apartment and you lotioning his calloused hands spoke in volumes, reassuring you both that it was safe like this.

He hadn’t been wrong, though. Shit hit the fan fast and in a matter of days, Frank Castle was a dead man as far as the world was concerned.

Before that, though, he was coaxed further into the realization of just how important you were to him. He was used to nightmares, in fact, he anticipated them each night. And yet, that night, his hands still smelling like your vanilla lotion, he found himself dreaming of you, your big smile, your sweet laugh and your soft lips.

Jesus Christ, he wanted you so bad. All of you.

It was a little harder to go about his mission then. You occupied his mind constantly now, and he began to resent himself for being such a coward and not giving you the letter, after all.

And when he jumped off an exploding ship, he wondered if he’d ever get the chance to tell you. Once he made it out in one piece, he decided he couldn’t risk losing the opportunity again.

You had just seen the news on the TV, and as badly as you wanted to believe no body meant no death, your stomach was twisting and turning. The idea of Frank being gone, just like that, was one that began chipping at your sanity. Thankfully, you didn’t get to sit with it for very long when there was a knock on your door, and you practically ran to open it, never more relieved to see the hunk of a man.

You tugged him into your apartment and sealed the door behind him before hugging him tight, on the verge of tears as you felt his firm body against yours and consoled yourself. He was there. He was alive. Well? Debatable.

”I’m okay, sweetheart, ’m okay. Can’t get rid of me that easy”, he chuckled darkly, his heart skipping a beat when you pulled away and looked right into his eyes. You looked so beautiful yet so vulnerable, and he couldn’t put his feelings into words when he realized he had gotten you so worked up. He hated to cause you any pain, but to know you cared that much?

”Shit…”, he breathed, licking his lips as he gently placed a hand on your jaw and groaned. ”C’mere”, he whispered before leaning down to kiss you, both your eyes closing as he placed his lips on yours, deep and tentative. You melted closer to him, your hands resting on his vest while he cupped your face and kissed you hard, breathing you in and reveling in the taste and feeling of you.

It was better than he had imagined, all anger and hatred leaving his system for the fleeting moment when he got to have just you, nothing else.

He wanted to take his sweet time with you but the yearning was too great to contain. In no time, you were lying on your back on your mattress with Frank on top of you, trying to hold back some of his weight as he kissed your neck and unzipped your skirt. He muttered words of praise and flattery against your soft skin, eyes blown wide with genuine admiration when he kissed his way down to your thighs and made you repeat his name in desperate begs and pleas.

A part of him was sure he was dreaming again, your head rested upon his bare chest, his fingers carding through your hair as you listened to his heartbeat and basked in the afterglow of the hours spent together. It was the middle of the night by now, the sounds of city never fully gone but toned down, your bed feeling like a safe haven amidst all the chaos around you both.

But Frank knew there was no permanent escape from what he had reshaped his life into. The thing was, you didn’t want to be an escape — you wanted to be part of it.

Nevertheless, he spoke up gruffly. ”Y’know I can’t stay, right?” he was quiet, his words a weak whisper, like a shameful confession he didn’t want the world to know. ”I mean, I’mma be with you tonight if you’ll let me, but I… I can’t leave things unfinished. The world thinks ’m dead, y’know, that’s just… It’s an advantage and I just—”, he went on, but you interjected with a nod and your hand smoothing up and down his chest soothingly.

”I know. I understand”, you promised before kissing his collarbone softly, ”I know, Frank. You don’t need to explain any more than you want to.”

He swallowed then, trying to muster up the courage to say what had been on his mind for so long. ”I, uh, I can’t ask you to hold out hope for me, but uh… I just want you to know…”, he tried to find the right words, licking his lips nervously before sighing and burying his face in your hair with a somber kiss. ”You don’t owe me shit. But you’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time. Look, I gotta do my thing, but I don’t want you to think it’s easy to walk away from you because, fuck… I don’t wanna lose ya, sweetheart”, he explained further, making you smile against his scarred skin.

”I will always hold out hope for you, Frank. My door will always be open for you”, you replied simply, and even though you didn’t elaborate further, it was all he needed to hear. Just knowing you weren’t ready to give up on him.

And that was why he wasn’t going to do it, either.

He kept in touch in whatever small, Frank-esque ways he could. A note on your door, a novelty mug on your windowsill, a comforting message from an unknown number. Sometimes all you had was the remains of his aftershave enveloped in the sweaters he had left behind, or the slander of his name on the news even when he was presumed dead — it was small but it reminded you that he was, in fact, alive, and as long as he was that, then you had faith that one day he’d be back on your doorstep.

Sometimes he felt like an irredeemable asshole for making you wait for him. If only you had the chance, you would have told him to get his head out of his ass — you had fallen for him, and whether he wanted you to be there or not, you would have thought about him, worried over him, longed for him. He could have tried to distance himself from you if he wanted to, but he was so deeply entwined into your life by now that all the roots simply couldn’t be plucked out anymore.

And he may have been stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. Knowing how he felt about you, how being away from you made him ache, he suspected you shared the yearning and he knew that trying to push you away wouldn’t have healed either of you from it. So he kept in contact however he could, but not too close to keep his enemies off your trail.

You checked the news every day. And when you saw Billy Russo’s face plastered across your screen, his arrest making the headlines, you knew it was a good day.

Accordingly, there was promptly a knock on your door, and you felt your heart soar as you peeked through the peephole and saw the only man worth waiting for on the other side. You swung the door open, and in an instant, a smile stretched across his bruised face as he help up a bouquet of daffodils, making you grin, too.

”Hey, sweetheart”, he murmured, pulling you into a hug that shut off your senses from everything but him — all you smelled, felt and heard was him, your systems threatening to fail as you clung onto him like your life depended on it and felt his lips leave soft kisses on your forehead and hair. ”There ya are. As goddamn beautiful as I remembered”, he whispered, relieved to be holding you again, even a little proud of himself for making it here.

It wasn’t like he needed the extra motivation on all those long nights away — avenging his family was all the fuel he craved, but knowing that at the end of it all, he had someone to fall back on, encouraged him even more.

”I could say the same about you”, you chuckled while pulling away enough to place a gentle hand on his face and observe all the purple and yellow markings left there. It was obvious he had taken a beating, but if the news was to be trusted, Billy had suffered a fate much worse. And despite all the slowly healing scars on Frank’s sharp features, he was alive, and he was right there for you to admire and tend to.

”This ugly mug?” he snorted while kicking the door shut and pushing his hood off of his head, his hair grown out again and begging for your fingers to run through. Regardless of the mangled appearance, though, he seemed almost hopeful, a small smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you with a twinkle in his dark eyes. He seemed exhausted physically, but mentally, a little less tired. And that made you indescribably happy for him.

”I’m proud of you”, you breathed out, a smile crawling to your own face, ”you did what you needed to do, right? You… you did good. You deserve to rest now.”

Frank looked a little taken aback by your words. Not in a bad way, but it was obvious no one had told him before nor had he expected anyone to. But the quiet chuckle that rose from his throat was genuinely flattered, as was the squint of his eyes as he leaned forward and gave you a tiny nod.

”Thank you, sweetheart. Really”, he rasped before taking in a deep breath, ”any chance I’d, uh, get to rest here? With you?” The look in his eyes was almost boyish, almost nervous, and it made your heart soar the same way his gaze had the first night you had met.

”Always, Frankie”, you promised before placing a hand on his chest and beaming up at him, ”I was hoping you’d say that.”

He licked his lips and looked down at you, hand coming to your neck tenderly with his thumb brushing across your chin. ”I feel like shit for the way I left you back then. I, uh, I hope you didn’t feel like I was just… tryna get in your bed, y’know? It was more than that to me. You are more than that to me. It’s, I dunno, hard for me to put it into words but I care about ya. More than I have about anyone in a long time, I guess”, he explained awkwardly, but you didn’t doubt his sincerity for a single second.

You leaned up to briefly kiss him, and the way he leaned forward to get more made your stomach churn. Nevertheless, you pulled apart to speak your turn, your smaller hand still resting on his bruised cheek.

”I know. I never doubted it. And I don’t expect you to be anyone else but you. I want you as you, Frank”, you reassured, and with a heavy sigh, he dropped his forehead to yours.

”Girl… I want you”, he urged, and you smiled as he briefly touched your lips with the tip of his finger.

”I’m all yours, Frankie.”

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader

149 notes · View notes

peggyao3 · 4 days ago

Text

Pt. 28 - Fucking Machines

A/N: Why is it always dom!Feyd these days? I miss sub!Feyd, but he ain't back yet 😅

TAGS: she/her AFAB FMC, dub-con, dom!Feyd, BDSM, restraints, overstimulation

WORD COUNT: 700

"No, no, no, you can't!" She laments pitifully upon being forcefully pushed down on the bench by three demure slaves. Feyd-Rautha cradles her head against the headrest, snaring her pleading gaze with a saccharine smile.

"It's to your own benefit, sweetling." The slaves slot her wrists in the designated shackles under the bench and lift her kicking legs to the struts that jut up on each side of the contraption. "I can't be wasting hours of my days to break your little pussy in."

The three bald figures scurry wordlessly out of Feyd-Rautha's wicked play room and when the door whirrs shut, it is only him and her left in this torture chamber. She is spread apart, ankles, wrists and waist tied and one look down the length of her helplessly writhing body reveals a device with a phallus of shiny, black plastic attached, ready to start pistoning into her bared cunt.

At the very least, he squirts a generous glob of lube into his palm and spreads it all over the exposed, tender flesh between her thighs while she whines and shakes her head no with growing despair. Her little clit swells under the ministrations of his calloused fingers and by the time he switches on the machine, she barely takes notice of it, caught up in the throes of pleasure.

Only when the cool plastic breaches her wet, little hole, her eyes snap down and her limbs spasm in their restraints. Feyd-Rautha chuckles and stands, wiping his fingers clean on his trousers. The shiny cock slides beautifully into his darling's cunt and she takes it so well, much better than he thought.

"What do you think, three sessions a day should be enough?" His chest vibrates with a deep chuckle while the phallus drills slowly into her squishy cunt. "Or should I just keep you here? I'll even take you to the bathroom for a piss every other hour if you're good."

"I ha-a-ate you!" She hisses pitifully, though her toes curl treacherously in the air.

Nonchalantly, he switches the machine to a wickedly high setting and pushes himself off the wall, sauntering to the door with long, graceful limbs.

"N-No-o-o, ahhh, don't leave me, please!" She cries out for him. "I'm sorry, m'sorry, sorry!"

"You don't know how lucky you are, sweetling," Feyd-Rautha tut-tuts and returns with measured steps. "All the effort I'm taking on me to make sure I won't split you open on my cock when I have you."

Pleadingly, she waits for him to turn down the setting, but Feyd only settles in the leather armchair across from her and palms himself over his trousers. Her whining and pleading only makes him determined to keep her here longer, until she's half unconscious with drool slipping from both corners of her mouth.

It takes half an hour for him to take mercy on her. When the rattling of the machine subsides, she whimpers quietly and her empty hole clenches pitifully around nothing.

"Aw, poor darling," he drawls and gracefully crouches down, swapping the slick-glistening phallus for a bigger one with practiced ease.

"S-Stop, no more!" She writhes like a snake. "Why?! Yours doesn't even look like that!" She barks out with shaky voice while Feyd already nudges the thick head to her swollen, weeping entrance.

"Does it not?" The machine jumps into motion and his woman yowls out, thrashing against the restraints as her pussy is forced to take the obscene girth and length of the toy. "It was modeled after my own," Feyd-Rautha reveals with a wicked grin. "Convince yourself."

Leisurely, he saunters around the bench and adjusts the height of the headrest to match his hips. Then, he snaps down the top part of it, letting his sweetling's head roll back with a frightened yelp. Her despair only grows bigger when Feyd-Rautha unfastens his pants and pulls out his impressive cock, stroking himself right over her face. Long, dark veins coil across the underside.

"It's n-n-not going to fi-i-it," she laments, face and hairline damp with sweat. Chuckling, Feyd lets his cock fall against her cheek and forehead.

"Open wide, my darling," he purrs. "Your pussy is not the only hole that needs breaking in."

A/N: We need a mop in aisle ten 💦💦💦 Or at least I need one in mine.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst

#feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha #feyd #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd x oc #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x oc #feyd imagine #feyd rautha imagine #feyd smut #feyd rautha smut #austin butler #kinktober 2024 #peggysuave kinktober 2024 #absurdthurst kinktober

95 notes · View notes

mrsnegan · 7 months ago

Text

Want to hear you scream

Pairing: SoftDom!Negan x SubF!Reader

Summary: Negan agrees to let you try out a fucking machine and you get more than you bargained for.

Warnings: smut, like really filthy smut, fucking machine, bondage, use of daddy, degradation if you squint, overstimulation, magic wand, safe word is established but not used, mentions of squirting and facial

Author's note: I really don't know where this came from. Well, here it is, a (not so sweet) little drabble. Enjoy.

"I-it's not e-enough," you stutter, pleasure boiling hot in your veins, threatening to take over your whole body if only he would give you some more.

Negan clicks with his tongue while he watches you from a few feet away. The monotone sound of the fucking machine which keeps entering you over and over again in an agonizingly slow pace is the only other sound in the room. Except for your little whimpers and occasional rustling of sheets when you try to get more. More friction, more pleasure, more Negan. Just more. Being bound to the bed, both arms and legs wide apart, doesn't improve your desperate try to finally get some relieve.

"Nah, baby, you wanted to try this out, so we do this how I see fit."

"Please Negan, need it faster, need your cock," you babble helplessly.

"Greedy little thing. Wants to get fucked by this machine and still it's not enough," he taunts, partly amused. "Need daddy's big cock to come all over the place?"

"Y-yes, fuck, need you."

He chuckles cruelly. "Too bad I ain't fucking you today, baby. That's what we bought this beast here for."

His hand caresses the machine positioned at the foot of the bed. The attached black dildo is entering your wet pussy still slowly, though Negan can see your arousel coating the toy whenever it retreats.

"If you wouldn't like it, your pussy wouldn't fucking cream all over it, don't you think?"

Moaning at his words, you shake your head, hands flexing into fists.

"I l-love it, daddy. Just need m-more."

Negan chuckles at your desperate try to get what you want. Sure as shit he's hard as a rock underneath his pants and decides to give you just what you asked for.

He uses the remote in his other hand to finally increase the speed. Your toes curl at the new angle of the toy in your tight channel, your whimpers getting louder with each thrust. Soon you desperately try to hold on to something because Negan still switches to the next and more intense setting, the dildo fucking into your hole faster and faster.

"T-t-too much, fuck," you moan loudly.

"Fuck, baby, now it's too much? Thought you wanted it harder. You always want it harder," he spits, grinning evilly down at your squirming form.

"You gonna come for me like this?"

Your cheeks feel on fire, your whole body does. You manage a little nod, the muscles in your thighs flexing while the machine pumps the toy harder and harder into you, hitting that spot. There's no point of return, the blinding pleasure washes over you, drowning you in its endless intensity.

The pounding doesn't stop. Instead, Negan slows down the speed again.

You gulp breathlessly, bleary eyes searching for him.

"Not done with you yet," you hear him say before there's another sound joining the fucking machine. You know that sound, the low buzzing of the magic wand.

"Fuck Negan, I can't," you try to reason with him, but you just hear him laugh before he appears next to you.

"You will give me more. I won't stop until you drench the sheets real good and if you're lucky I will come on your face afterwards."

"No, please, I-"

"That's not the safe word isn't it?" he asks, giving you a way out but you just whimper, body still taut in its restraints from the onslaught of pleasure.

"Thought so," he exclaims. You hear the remote click before the fucking machine drills into you again. Just seconds after he presses the magic wand directly to your sensitive clit, making you shake while you pull helplessly on your restraints.

"Come for me, baby, want to hear you scream."

#negan #negan x reader #negan smut #negan x you #jeffrey dean morgan #negan fanfiction

305 notes · View notes

mrsshabana · 1 year ago

Text

Patient!Gyutaro x Nurse!Reader - CHAPTER 2

Chapter 1

✦ CW: 18+ MDNI, female reader. Dead dove: do not eat. Non-con, smut, violence, manipulation, mentions of mental illness. ✦ AN: This chapter has disturbing scenes with graphic violence and non-consensual sex. Please read all of the content warnings before continuing.

✦ WC: 1,808

“Good morning Mr.Shabana,” you chime, smiling brightly, bringing a tray with his breakfast into the room.

He stares at you as if he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide, skin pale, breathing at a halt.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling alright?” you ask as you set his food down on the table.

“I-It’s nothin’...”

“Well, I’ll see you in a few hours Mr.Shabana, feel free to call for me if you need anything in the meantime,” shooting him another kind smile before you exit the room.

His stare drills holes into your back as he watches you leave. He hasn’t felt this annoyed by a new nurse in years. Could it be that you are mocking him?

Pushing his food to the side, he clenches his teeth in frustration. He thought he got rid of you for good. You’re the first nurse that has stayed after he pulled that antic. It always works. But why didn’t it work on you?

He’ll have to come up with another way to get rid of you.

After the first day with Gyutaro, you vowed to do everything in your power to help him heal his physical and mental wounds. Making sure to be kind, considerate, and paying close attention to his needs. The next few days have been surprisingly pleasant. No outbursts or insults coming from him like they once had before. He still doesn’t talk to you, hell he barely even acknowledges you. But it’s better than being assaulted every time you enter his room.

Though you still get that gut feeling that you're in danger every time you are around him. Your hair stands on end and your hands get sweaty. But for the sake of doing your job, you ignore the warnings from your body.

And it seems your persistence is paying off. As your keen eye quickly picked up on some of Gyutaro’s behavior. He only eats pre-packaged food. Why? You have no idea. Might be from some past trauma… maybe you’ll look back into his therapy notes later.

But it’s quite odd. Every time you bring him his meals, he only eats the pre-packaged foods included in his meal. Usually things like cookies and muffins. He can’t be getting more than 500 calories a day.

So, you start going out of your way to buy healthier pre-packaged foods for him. Things like canned tuna, beans, and sometimes potato chips from the vending machine. He’ll only eat it if you give it to him unopened. You want to ask him why he eats like this, but you figure he most likely won’t answer. Plus you don’t want to risk setting him off again.

Your kindness really pisses him off. But he doesn’t hate when you bring him things he’s actually willing to eat. Surprisingly, he doesn’t think much of it. He’s not impressed that you figured out a way to get him to eat, because to him there was no trick. He wasn’t trying to be difficult. It’s just how he is. He won’t eat certain things and he has specific reasons for doing so. However, he isn’t grateful either. He could care less if he starved to death. But it is nice having a full stomach for once. He’s finally starting to feel a bit better, as his strength begins to return. Though, you may soon regret it.

.・゜゜・　♰　・゜゜・．

“Mr. Shabana, are you ready?” You knock on his door and peek inside to see him sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Mm hm,” he nods and stands. His lanky frame towering above you as he follows you out of the room.

Today is Gyutaro’s hydrotherapy session, recommended to be given once every two weeks by his doctor.

And since Gyutaro has been deemed to be a danger to himself, he must be supervised during the session.

You can feel him staring at you as he follows you to the sauna room. You swear his gaze is so spiteful that it causes you physical pain. Every part of your body is screaming at you as you unlock the door and open it for him. But surely you’re just overreacting right? It’s been over a week now with no incident at all. You finally feel as though you are making progress with him, and you aren’t willing to let go of that progress just because of a gut instinct.

“Alright, remove your clothes and I’ll start the bath,” you say as you walk over to the hydrotherapy tub.

He doesn’t respond, but you hear shuffling behind you. Assuming that he’s getting himself ready, you get on your knees and adjust the temperature of the bath. Watching as the water slowly rises and steam fills the room.

Dipping a finger into the water to check the temperature, it feels pleasantly hot.

“There we go,” you smile, “Your bath is ready Mr.Sha-” You begin to turn around but in the blink of an eye your face is engulfed in heat. It all happens so fast, you don’t register what’s going on.

All you know is you can’t breathe, and it’s too hot.

Holding on to the edge of the tub, you try to push yourself up and out of the water. But a strong grip on your neck is preventing you from doing so.

You finally begin to realize the gravity of the situation when you feel Gyutaro’s body pressed up against you. He keeps his hand firmly grasped around the back of your neck, holding your head under the water. And with his other hand he roughly lifts up your skirt and pulls down your panties.

“Stop strugglin’ or else I’ll break your fuckin’ neck,” Gyutaro growls under his breath.

Not only does he hate you because he finds your kindness incredibly annoying, but he also hates you because of how horny you make him. Seeing you in that short skirt every damn day. He gets hard every time you enter his room, and his throbbing cock becomes so persistent that he has to jerk himself off or else he’ll be in a bad mood the entire day.

How dare you tease him like this. Well he’ll show you.

He’ll get to kill two birds with one stone. Satisfying the aching in his pants, and getting rid of you for good. There’s no way you’ll stay after this.

Cackling, he pumps his cock a few times, readying himself at your entrance.

“This is what you get for always teasin’ me…” he grunts as he forcefully shoves his cock inside of you. It takes a few thrusts to bully himself fully inside, as you aren’t wet at all.

You feel like you’re being ripped in half, it stings and burns as he forces his thick cock into your tight hole.

Water fills your mouth as you scream under the water. You panic, and use all of the strength you have left flailing your arms behind you, trying to push him away. But he’s too strong, and he’s between your legs so you can't kick him either.

“Stop it, slut” he shouts, punctuating each word with a hard thrust.

After a few thrusts, you start to get a little wet. Not enough to make this comfortable for you, but enough that he’s able to plunge easier into you.

Having been in an Asylum for so long, he’s never had the pleasure of sex before. And even though it’s something he’s fantasized about many times, he never could have imagined how good it’d feel. The way your pussy tightly clenches around him, he feels like he’s already getting close.

Your face begins to lose color, and you stop struggling. The abuse on your pussy is dulled by the pounding in your skull.

Gyutaro notices you’re beginning to lose consciousness. He really doesn’t care about you but if you died now, he’d never be able to fuck you again. And he’s already getting addicted to the feeling of being inside of you… it’d be such a shame if this was the only time he’d be able to use you.

He reluctantly pulls out of you, grabbing you by the hair and pulling your head out of the water.

Instantly you cough up a bunch of water and gasp for air. A devilish grin spreads across his face as he watches you struggle to breathe.

Water and saliva drips down your chin as you open your watery eyes. Your vision is blurry but you can make out his erect cock throbbing in front of you. No wonder it hurt so much, not only is he long but quite girthy as well. Decorated with black spots and large veins, there’s a ring of blood at its base.

He grabs your chin and forces you to look up at him, “Well since you so kindly opened your mouth for me…” he grabs the base of his cock and forces you to take him into your mouth, “Might as well put it to good use.”

You cough and choke as he thrusts into your mouth, his leaking tip ramming against the back of your throat. Digging your nails into his thighs, trying to push him away to no avail.

You hate to admit it, but you much rather have him abusing your throat than your pussy. But it doesn’t help that you’re still struggling to gasp for oxygen. Your lungs burn but you try your best to calm down and breath through your nose while you endure the torture.

It doesn’t take long before you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts get sloppy. Just wanting this to be over as quickly as possible, you suck as fervently as you can. Twirling your tongue around his tip, taking him as deep as you can.

“F-fuck…” he moans, cock twitching as he coats your throat in hot sticky cum. He tightly grips your hair as he rides out his high.

Tears roll down your cheeks as you swallow his cum, not daring to look up at him. It tastes foul, salty, and bitter. It’s thick as it slowly slides down your throat.

He hisses as he pulls out of your mouth. A long string of saliva connecting from your swollen lips to the tip of his cock.

He stands up and looks down at you. Grinning as a deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. You can’t help but cry under his gaze, feeling completely humiliated and ruined. So disgusted with your own body that you don’t even feel like yourself anymore.

“Pathetic whore,” he spits, his saliva landing on your cheek. Grinning in satisfaction as he pulls up his pants and puts his shirt back on.

Without another word he walks out of the room, the heavy metal doors slamming behind him. Leaving you gasping for air on the floor, sore and bleeding from his abuse.

Taglist: @gyusimp @sterzin @sassysaxsolo @gh0stedddd @cry-baby-stuff @hutchilli [If you asked to be added to the taglist and weren't, it may be because your tag didn't work when I searched for it. Or because you don't have your age listed on your blog]

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #gyutaro smut #kny smut #demon slayer smut #nurse au #dead dove do not eat #smut

546 notes · View notes

margaretoakgrove · 4 months ago

Text

KARL HEISENBERG CONCEPT ART

�� Karl Heisenberg

↳ Heisenberg's main concept is based on Frankenstein. We wanted to create a cool gray-haired character who was a little rough around the edges. He smokes his favorite Cuban cigars.

↳ An early draft of Heisenberg's family. The biggest difference was that Heisenberg was going to be a twin and his mother was a subject for brain experiment.

● Mutated Heisenberg

↳ We went for a look that was the opposite of his human form, a giant mechanical monster. The design based on the idea that he uses scrap left scattered around the factory. He owns weapons from tanks and planes, and has mountains of scrap for his mass-produced experiments.

● Mutated Heisenberg in Detail

↳ The original design was based on the splendid royale moth caterpillar. We wanted him to look like he moved on treads and be faster than any other boss monster.

↳ Heisenberg's father was going to be the leader of the village, and the boss fight with the mechanical mutation was originally going to be with him.

↳ Concept art of a day in the life of Heisenberg. Night after night his modified henchmen dig up corpses from the graveyard to be used in his metal army.

● Soldat Eins

↳ We called these enemies "Drillman" for a long time during development because one arm was replaced with a drill. The idea for these enemies is they have a reactor inside their chests with the parasite inside that acts like an internal combustion engine. The goggles are units that Heisenberg uses to control them.

↳ Designs for various Soldat reactors, but the final design was a grotesque mechanical heart.

● Soldat Panzer

↳ We consciously created the enemies in the factory to be different so they didin't just terrify players but also created a strong sense of anticipation. The design was based on Western medieval armor and helmets.

● Soldat Jet

↳ We were really attached to the name "Jet Drill" during development. They use jets on their backs and their heads look like fighter planes. The design is similar to the horseshoe crab. We designed the front and back with different amounts of detail so the back would be particularly shocking.

● Sturm

↳ The propeller on his head is made from three chainsaw blades. He chopped his own arms off when they got in the way of the spinning blades. There was one plan to have the Sturm be Heisenberg's real father. And during development he was called "Propeller Man."

● Bridge Ruins

↳ Concept art for the bridge to Heisenberg's factory. It was initially going to be just to the side of the path leading to the Altar ruins.

● Sturm Attacks

↳ Sturm chasing Ethan down a narrow corridor, destroying everything in his way.

● Giant Cavern

↳ The concept art for Heisenberg kicking Ethan down into the hole and the giant cavern under the factory.

● Casting Machine

↳ A casting machine which uses molds to create objects made out of cast iron. This concept for a puzzle was around since early development as a way to create a key.

● Foundry

↳ This room was once only used for casting iron but Heisenberg ended up utilizing it for his experiments. This room links to the hidden engine room.

● Engine Room

↳ An engine room powered by giant pistons.

↳ Concept art for Heisenberg's factory where Ethan is chased by the Soldat series. If the reactors in their chests are destroyed then the parasite inside will attempt to escape.

● Grinder Shaft Fight

↳ A fight inside the grinder shaft. These were early designs for the Soldat Jet. We originally imagined a space where they could freely fly about.

● Heisenberg's Key

↳ We went with a design that had a powerful looking horse just like the one on Heisenberg's crest.

● Start of the Battle With Heisenberg

↳ Concept art for the flow of events leading up to the battle with Heisenberg. We pictured Ethan falling into the pit around dusk and returning from it to a dark stormy night sky. The general layout of events didin't change much from early development.

● Mutated Heisenberg-Fight 1

↳ Concept art for the boss fight with Heisenberg. Even early on in development this battle was going to commence with a self-propelled artillery. The only difference is that in the final version, Heisenberg is not defeated using falling transmission towers.

● Mutated Heisenberg-Fight 2

↳ We figured that Heisenberg's yard would be full of scrap and vehicles, which he uses during the fight.

↳ Boss fight with mutated Heisenberg where he turns into his final form.

#resident evil 8 #resident evil 8 village #resident evil village #re8 #re8 village #re village #Lord Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg #Heisenberg

141 notes · View notes

pareidoliaonthemove · 4 days ago

Text

What Are Little Girls Made Of

“How far to the lifesigns, Thunderbird Five?”

Virgil stopped the rest behind the ‘mini-Mole’, as he waited for his older brother to respond.

“About twenty meters, Two. You need to veer five degrees right, and one degree down. That will have you breaking through their air pocket at the corner diagonally opposite from their position.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five. Five degrees right one, one degree down. Moving out.”

Virgil keyed in the course change on his wrist controller, and activated the mini-Mole. With a high pitched squeal, the small ROV again started drilling into the concrete and rebar of the collapsed building. It captured all the detritus, mixed it with a quick setting binding agent, and extruded it against the ‘walls’ of its tunnel, ensuring that the resulting space wasn’t going to collapse immediately behind it.

Virgil eyed his wrist controller as he crawled after the machine. Time was still of the essence in this type of rescue. They hadn’t been able to ascertain exactly why the commercial complex had collapsed, and that made Virgil very unhappy.

In front of him, the mini-Mole chirruped, slowed its pace and drill, and pulled forward to show a hole in the ‘wall’ facing a void. Virgil activated his passive line to John, then crawled up to the entryway and cautiously poked his head through. “International Rescue. Is anybody here?”

Stupid question, he knew there were two human life-signs in this space, but the enquiry served multiple purposes. Firstly, it identified him, and stopped anyone from trying to brain him with a rock – it had happened. Trapped people panicked, and if they had fears about running out of oxygen, another person in ‘their’ space, breathing ‘their’ air was a threat that had to be ‘dealt’ with.

Secondly, it told him if the lifesigns were conscious. No conscious victim could resist responding to the magic words...

“International Rescue!”

And there it was. One of the two lifesigns was currently bouncing towards him, a little girl about seven years of age, rushing across the space, her pigtails streaming behind her, pink ribbons fluttering. Virgil watched carefully as he crawled into the space. She was moving freely, despite concrete dust liberally coating her body, and bloody red grazes on the sides of legs and palms of her hand. Her dress, once a pink frilly layered affair was now torn and lank.

She must have felt like a princess when she left her home this morning.

The little girl grabbed his hand and started trying to drag him back with her to the far corner. “You have to come, Mummy’s stuck! She can’t get out!”

“Judy! Calm.” The voice was laced with pain but firm and calming. Two conscious resucees. That was good.

Judy stopped her insistent dragging, but didn’t let go of Virgil’s hand. “Please, Mister International Rescue. My Mummy is stuck. Can you help her get out?”

Virgil smiled, it was a practised smile, confident and calm. “That’s why I’m here. Now, where is your mummy, and what is her name?”

A deep breath. “My Mummy’s name is Jennifer Robson. My name is Judy Robson. Mummy is over in that corner,” she pointed. “And her legs are caught under the roof. Mine were, too,” she added, “but I’m little so I managed to wiggle my way out. Mummy can’t.”

“Thank you, Judy. You’ve been very brave, and very helpful. Can you keep helping me by staying here, while I go and see what’s got your mummy stuck?”

A determined nod, but her fear was betrayed by small teeth gnawing at her lower lip and bright water gathering in her eyes.

Virgil smiled again, and lowered himself down beside her mother. “Mrs Robson?” he asked, it never hurt to check names with parents. Judy had spoken clearly, but a misunderstood name at a rescue site could have consequences later.

The woman smiled up at him from where she lay on her left side. “That’s right, please call me Jenny. It’ll save time.” A glance at her daughter. “It’s a bit more complicated than just being stuck. I think something’s gone through my left leg.” A frown. “My right leg is lying in front of the left, and I can move it freely, but…”

Virgil nodded. “Okay. I understand.” He pulled a device from the satchel he had been dragging under his chest, clipped to his harness. “This is a snake,” he showed Mrs Robson. “I’m going to slide it behind you, and it’ll let me see what’s holding you in place. Then I can come up with a plan to get you out.”

“That would be appreciated,” Jenny smiled.

Virgil eased his way behind her, and activated the snake, sending it slipping down next to her back, and relaying what it ‘saw’ to a little 2D screen on the control box.

He frowned at what he saw. A piece of rebar – entirely too thin for what it was presumably doing, he noted absently – had been freed from it encasing concrete, and had stabbed through Jenny’s left calf. He sent the snake bobbing down, to examine beneath.

They were in luck, the rebar had only just broken the skin, and hadn’t pinned her to the slab below. One cut, a slight jacking of the slab above her, and Jenny could be pulled out.

He informed Jenny as much, and then paused. Judy was sitting cross legged where he had left her, her apparent calm betrayed by the clean furrows tear tracks had carved down the concrete dust coating her face. He couldn’t send the little girl up the tunnel on her own, there were too many side branches that had been carved to reach other victims of the collapse. He couldn’t take her himself, and leave Jenny alone. And they really couldn’t afford the time to have one of his brothers come down and collect Judy, but she was still only young, and he didn’t really want her to see the state her mother was in.

Jenny saw where he was looking, and smiled. “If you’re worried about upsetting her with blood, you shouldn’t. Your biggest problem will be keeping her out of the way to wrap up a wound. Little girls come in two flavours, precious princesses who kick up and fuss at the mere mention of the word ‘blood’, or perfect little ghouls, who delight in it, and must be shown any wound the instant they learn of it.” She raised her voice so her daughter could hear. “Judy wants to be a doctor when she grows up, she is very interested in first aid and how to treat injuries. Judy the Ghoul, we call her.”

Judy perked up. “Oh, does Mummy need first aid? Can I help? I know how to apply bandages! Please, can I help? I’ll be super helpful!”

Virgil glanced at her mother, who was all but laughing at his confusion. “Judy, tell Mister International Rescue how you treat someone with a stab wound.”

“First, never ever ever take the object out of the wound. Take a bandage, and make doughnut, like this,” she held up both hands to make an ‘O’ shape, “slide it over the foreign object, and then wrap other bandages around it to keep in place.”

Virgil nodded approvingly. “Very good. That’s absolutely correct. First I’m going to have to get your mom out, and then we can do the first aid together, okay?”

A determined nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then, let’s get cracking.” He turned to his satchel, and pulled out a jack, setting it up, again behind Jenny, and then pulling out a version of Mini-MAX. This one programmed for exactly this kind of scenario, and kitted out with a miniature version of his shoulder mounted laser.

Virgil always had trepidations about ‘his’ Mini-MAX. It had taken Brains a lot of trial and error to tone down MAX’s natural enthusiasm. That coupled with a high powered laser had had … interesting results. International Rescue’s high energy equipment testing protocols and test chamber had both needed serious overhauling.

As was his habit, Virgil held his breath as Mini-MAX attached the heat absorbing shield, and activated his laser. But the little robot did his job perfectly, flying back out to his ‘travel’ case, leaving Jenny with a half-inch of rebar sticking out of her leg.

Virgil again held his breath as the jack slowly, so slowly, eased upwards just enough for him to slide Jenny out without jostling the rebar, and, once she was clear, slowly easing the slab back down to its original position.

As Virgil turned his attention to his charge’s injury, he found the little girl, kneeling beside her mother, her face mere inches from the ground, as she examined the injury with a bright-eyed intensity that made him just a little bit uneasy.

Gently pulling the girl, back he helped her sterilise her hands, and they both made a ‘doughnut’ out of bandages, and while Judy held them in place, Virgil started the binding bandage. He then turned to give Jenny painkillers, while keeping an eye on Judy as she completed the binding.

Quickly assembling the hover stretcher from its folded up state in his satchel, Virgil explained his evacuation plan to his patient and ‘assistant’. Jenny was soon installed on the stretcher, and strapped firmly in place, while Judy was more loosely strapped to her right side, so she could ‘monitor’ her mother on their trip to the surface.

Bringing the mini-Mole around to face back up its tunnel, Virgil tethered the hover stretcher to its back, and sent the Mole, the stretcher and its occupants trundling back towards freedom. Quickly packing up his remaining equipment, Virgil started crawling after the Mole, quietly confirming with John the condition of his rescuees and confirming that there was appropriate resources waiting for them top side, and that there was no-one else to pull from the wreckage of the building.

The trip back up passed quicker than had the one down, with Judy chatting happily to her mother, and then relaying regular ‘updates’ back to Virgil. The dying rays of sunlight bathing the scenery in reds and golds seemed unnaturally bright to Virgil as he crawled out of the hole, accepting Gordon and Scott’s help to stand upright again, and pull off his helmet. His back cracking as he straightened, but he bit back the groan as he twisted. That was just a bit too ‘old man’.

Ambulance crews, already briefed by John as to Jenny’s condition, and treatment already provided, had shifted her from the IR stretcher to their own gurney, and Judy was standing, watching intently as they took her vital signs, and unworriedly alternating between talking over, and talking to the little girl.

A woman, dressed in the ambulance’s uniform, drew Jenny away, and briefly examined the grazes on her legs and hands, and Virgil was briefly concerned that he had missed something in his haste to free the mother. But as the woman realised Virgil was watching, she offered a smile, and a thumbs up; and Virgil relaxed.

Beside him, Gordon nudged his arm, pressed an object into Virgil’s hand. It was one of the buttons Virgil had had made up, a test run of item he wanted to propose to Scott for distribution to kids at Danger Zone. A small button with a pin back. In the centre was the IR logo, an around it, in – naturally – Thunderbird Two Green was the words “I Was Brave For International Rescue”.

Virgil frowned at Gordon. These weren’t supposed to be here, but Gordon just nodded to Judy. “She’s earned it. Scott’s busy, go on, Virg.”

Virgil walked over, and knelt down beside Judy. “I wanted to thank you, Judy. You were very brave and very helpful back there.” He held up the button to her. “You’ve earned this. Can I pin it to your dress?”

Judy’s eyes went wide as she saw the button, and she nodded. Virgil reached forward, and very carefully pinned it to the dress, probably a bit high, it was near her collarbone. But Judy stared down at it a moment, before launching herself at Virgil and nearly strangling him with a hug. “Thank you, Mister International Rescue. Thank you for helping me and my Mummy.”

Virgil cautiously returned the hug, “Thank you, Judy.” A shout from the nearby ambulance had Judy’s caretaker gently pulling her away from Virgil and leading her away. Judy bounded as she went, pigtails streaming behind her. Back to her mother.

Twenty Years Later

Virgil lay back, watching the flickering pattern of light tiles rush past over his head. Whatever drugs they had given him on the way to the hospital were working a treat, what had been a fiery burning pain was now a dull throb, annoying but he could live with it.

A new body joined the lineup alongside his gurney, and Virgil turned his attention to the newcomer. A woman, about thirty, her long dark hair was caught in a plait, a pink ribbon incongruously woven into the braid, and formed the tie, candy pink scrubs that stuck out like a beacon amid the soft blues and teals.

A photo ID card at the end of the lanyard bounced about as she ran, and Virgil couldn’t make out then name, but recognised from the colour stripe along the right edge that the woman was an Emergency Department Trauma Surgeon. Attached to the lanyard, near her collarbone, was a pin, and Virgil strained to see it. He frowned, and reached up a hand to tug on the lanyard so he could get a closer look at the pin.

A IR blue clad arm reached about and caught his hand. “Hey, Virg, no grabbing. Hands to yourself, even when drugged, bro.”

There was a laugh, and the woman pulled off the lanyard one handed, and held the pin for his inspection. It was an old button, faded from exposure to light, but Virgil instantly recognised it. Scott had quickly forbidden them when he had found out, but the IR logo in the centre, and the words, “I Was Brave For International Rescue” ran around the edge in Thunderbird Two Green was unmistakable.

A name came to him, an image of a cement dust covered little girl in torn pink dress and pigtails, peering in fascination at the rebar piercing her mother’s leg. “Judy the Ghoul,” he said, voice slurring.

Above him, Judy – Doctor Judy – laughed. “That’s me. I’m honoured you remembered me.”

Virgil lay back and closed his eyes. “Never forgot. Little girls are ghouls. Important lesson t’ learn.” He opened his eyes. “My little girls are even worse. Had’ta keep infirmary locked. Was tryin’ to play ‘doctor’.”

She laughed again, turning her attention to his lower body. Virgil really didn’t want to know what she was seeing. Feeling what had happened was bad enough. A thought. “Did y’ Mum keep th’ leg?”

“No,” was the absent reply. “Sepsis infection at the hospital meant she lost her leg, at the knee. She has a prosthesis; reckons it’s the best thing that ever happened to her. Says it reduced her footache by fifty percent.”

She turned back to Virgil. “But I’m afraid we’ll not be reducing your footache, Mr Tracy. But if you can be very brave and helpful, we’ll have you back rescuing little girls from collapsed buildings in no time.”

Virgil smiled, as half of the people surrounding him, including his brother, fell away, and he was propelled through double doors into the gleaming sterility of a surgical theater. “I look forward to it.”

Notes:

I have five nieces, aged between ten and two. Any bandages or bandaids must be immediately removed for them to inspect the damage. Ghouls. The lot of them. Unless it’s their blood!

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the TOS or CGI Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

#fanfic #my fanfic #thunderbirds are go #virgil tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #collapsed building #first aid #amputation

46 notes · View notes

nvuy · 11 months ago

Text

oil, but the petroleum kind, not the lavender kind — wanderer

summary. the wanderer keeps breaking down, and as frustrating as he believes you to be, you’re the only person on this god forsaken planet that knows how to fix him.

notes. obligatory first post of 2.7k words is not a navigation post, and had to be scaramouche related because i’m not obsessed at all. i actually don’t like him. not one bit.

warnings. innuendos because you’re a bit weird. also not proofread, so mind your eyes.

The puppet trudged into the rundown warehouse with a sickening twist in his stomach, like a towel wrung too tight.

In his right hand was his left hand. Popped right off at the socket, and buzzing incessantly. He would kill The Doctor when he got his hands on him; why would there need to be an unnecessary bzzt! in his ear every time something in his body went wrong. Case in point, his hand was not attached to his arm.

He didn’t need a warning alarm. He could very well see the problem.

Nonetheless, he barged through the door with a permanent snarl imprinted on his lips.

Typical. You were asleep at a bench in the back, spine bent at an awkward angle with your forehead resting on your forearms. Your arms were covered in charcoal of some sort, as well as white smears from the paint bucket you decided would make a great pillow.

It reeked of oil. He noticed a black leak from beneath one of the machines. It looked old, very much so, with lots of holes for missing compartments. It screamed Fontaine, if he’d ever seen anything like it.

Impatiently, he thwacked the back of your head. “Hey.”

You shot up from the seat. There were dark imprints around your eyes from where you’d been wearing the safety glasses over your head.

You blinked blearily at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he repeated. “I need your supposed ‘expertise.’”

“What sort of time do you call this?” you scolded.

“Five in the afternoon.” And he was right. Oops. You swore you’d fallen asleep last night, too. You swivelled around in the chair to face the clock ticking on the wall. It was a good few minutes behind the actual time, but yep. Three past five.

Then, you stood up. “I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours?!” You shoved the chair out of the way and bounded for the giant machine. “Gods!” You vaguely remember setting an alarm. You had no idea what you were doing, rubbing at your eyes and blinking the sleep from them.

You hit the machine with the side of your fist.

“You can cry later.” He tossed his hand at you and you barely caught it. “My ears need fixing as well.” For good measure, there was another vibrating buzz deep inside his head, and he jolted.

“Do you want your hair done, too?”

He almost hissed at you.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” You sighed, still staring sadly at the machine. “You know the drill. On the bench.”

So, he got on the bench. The same as what he'd done for centuries with another man. It was different now with you; he’d insisted the pain you inflicted, as unintentional as it was, didn’t hurt in the slightest because he’d experienced much worse, but you’d paused every time. With a grimace too, like you were worried about his state. It was never anything worth mentioning anyway.

He wasn’t a frequent customer, per say. Frankly, not many people that came in claimed they were sentient puppets anyway. You’d believed him, as absurd as the claim was. And you’d poked at the indentation on the nape of his neck.

But, he’d visited more often than he’d like to admit. More often than not because he was breaking down without constant maintenance—and no, it wasn’t because he was old—to the extent that it frustrated him. Limbs popping off if too much pressure was applied, especially now with his newfound Vision attached to his heart.

He hated to admit your company was tolerable, even if all you did was blabber about machines. You’d taken a rather strange interest in him, it seemed, though. Not that he minded. He liked to be doted upon.

“Are you finally gonna let me–”

“No.” There it was. The pathetic begging to crack him open and watch how he worked. Every time, without failure, like a broken record spinning the same loop on repeat.

You pouted. “But I do things for you.”

“Fix my hand,” he practically demanded. He felt you reach over his legs when he straightened them out on the bench. Then, there was the sound of a buckle, and his right ankle was ensnared on the table. “What are you doing?”

“You squirmed too much last time,” you explained, tightening the buckle around his left ankle.

“You’re not exactly gentle.” He made no effort to fight you. “And this treatment is barbaric.”

You tested the restraints. “Whatever. My warehouse, my rules.”

“You’re filthy, by the way,” he said. You smelled like oil, so strongly he was convinced you’d doused it on yourself like a fragrance. Usually, you liked to combine a mixture of lavender and coconut. When you were clean, of course. You tied his right arm down to the bench. “You should shower.”

“I would, but there’s a dog barking at me on my workbench.”

He almost turned his head to bite your arm.

Nonetheless, his hand was an easy fix. He’d probably be able to do it himself, in all honesty, but it gave him an excuse to escape Lesser Lord Kusanali’s never ending ramblings and such. Not to mention he could visit you, as pathetic as it sounded.

The limb reattached with a pop that made him tense immediately. Other than that, he wriggled his fingers experimentally, and they worked just fine.

His ears were the worst. Not only did they require constant maintenance, but aforementioned 'constant maintenance' needed patience. Patience that you, nor him, had.

And because of that, it was hurting him. He tried not to let it show, not that you couldn’t tell, but there was simply no other way to do it. His ears were tricky technology because he didn’t have standard human anatomy, or anything that was a poor imitation of it. No cochlea, no eardrum, no nothing, so permanent hearing damage wasn’t too much of an issue.

In the absolute worst case scenario, if you completely destroyed whatever it was that allowed him to hear, you were sure you could make something. You were crafty like that. It also sounded fun. (And gave you the excuse to bury your hands in his chest and see what he was made of).

His ear buzzed and he jolted.

You frowned, the scaler tool wedged deep inside his ear canal. “Stop moving.” Your fingers pressed to his temples to steady his squirming.

“I’m not trying to.” Another buzz. “Ow, you wretch! Get off me!”

You held his head still. “Yeah, yeah, you big baby. I’m almost done.”

His fingers curled into his fists and he shut his eyes as tight as he could when you readjusted his head to his side.

The pain wasn’t even the worst part of it. It was just uncomfortable. He’d rather just cut off his ears and be finished with it.

Another bzzt and he grunted. There was a pained and wobbly line coating his lips. His eyes glossed over.

You tried to ignore how he was practically trying to curl up into himself and shift away from the tools. You needed a pair of suture scissors in his ear as well, and he almost broke free of his restraints when he felt more pressure.

“I think I–”

“Finish this,” he said dully, voice embarrassingly shaky.

“I can’t.” You pulled the tools slowly from his ear. “It’s not your ear. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

The buzzing was astoundingly miserable, and there was now a sharp ache to accompany it. “Well, then what is it, genius?”

“Something’s up with whatever controls your hearing. And no, it’s not your ears. There’s literally nothing in there.” You traced his earlobe soothingly, still thoughtful. “Did you fall?”

He did. A very very large fall, might he add, but he wasn’t going to tell you that. “Never mind that. You can’t fix my ear?” For a laugh, it buzzed again.

“I can, but–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, well, if you don’t want me to help you, then get out of my warehouse.”

The puppet bristled like a cactus. “I stated, very clearly, might I add, that my ear and my hand needed fixing. There is no reason for you to pull me apart.”

There was a scowl etched onto his face.

“Clearly it’s more than just an ear problem, old man.” You poked at his chest teasingly. “I’ll charge you less if you let me pull you open.”

“No. And you’ve never charged me regardless.”

“Negative number charge.” You tapped your cheek. “You can pay me with a kiss.”

“I will leave,” he threatened. He felt heat creep into his chest.

“Not if I keep you here.” You leaned over the workbench to retrieve your toolbox. “C’mon. I’ll be quick. And I’ll fix your ear. It’s a win-win situation.”

He jolted when his ear buzzed once more. It was like torture choosing between a constant involuntary and painful twitch and your hands below his skin.

They both sounded like terrible outcomes, though one was slightly more feasible than the other.

“Fine. Be quick.”

You gasped, eyes sparkling. “Really?!” Alarm bells rang in his head when you raised a hammer over his torso. “You got it.”

“I have buttons,” he forced out swiftly. “Put the hammer down.”

You practically threw the hammer somewhere else. It clattered on the ground with a loud clang, making his ears buzz. He writhed for a moment, and his teeth gritted at the incessant stiffening pain in his joints.

The restraints were growing difficult to bear. The cloying scent of freedom just out of reach was overwhelming.

“Where are they?”

If his wrists weren’t tied down to the table, he would’ve flailed unintentionally and caught you right in the stomach. “Hips.”

You whistled lowly. “Nice.”

He shot you the most withering glare he could muster whilst his left eyelid began to twitch.

You managed to get the waistband of his pants down just enough to see two large markings on either side of the roundest part of his hips. The waistband sat dangerously low, and he tried to control the twitching, though that didn’t seem to help.

Experimentally, your fingers grazed the deep purple markings. There was a shock that raced up your fingers; a warning not to try anything stupid.

The longer you pressed your fingers, the purple rose higher and higher towards his torso.

There, the electro-like veins and circuits formed a square that covered the expanse of his stomach to the tip of his ribs.

There was a hiss, and then the square sank into his torso.

He grunted at the vulnerability.

His skin gave way and slid below another portion of his hip, completely out of sight.

You stared down into him for a moment.

He wanted you dead. “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, more to yourself than anything.

His thigh twitched; whether it was him trying to remove himself from his confines, or if the surging Anemo was seeping down to his legs was a question that he couldn’t even answer.

He wanted to bark, or retaliate, or harp on about how weird you were, but he refrained. You were here to help, as strange as it was.

Instead, he murmured, “hurry up.”

“I’m serious.” You reached over and prodded a circuit running in a loop along his spine. “Whoever created you sure took their sweet time.”

“Enough.” He tried to sound as menacing as he could from his position. “Just finish this.”

So, you began, playing with an assortment of tools and wires to see what made him jolt.

Just as he’d so proudly proclaimed many times before, his mechanics and anatomy were beyond your understanding. From your own personal experience, robotic puppets would be absolutely filled with machinery and crossbeams and devices of all sorts, with barely any wriggle room for experimentation.

The puppet on the table was filled with almost nothing. There were a few core pieces, one of which you recognised as actuators stuck to the internal joints of his limbs.

As you poked and prodded, the puppet tried his very best to remain still. He’d been opened before, countless times actually, but with the intention of pain. Hurt, as a price to pay for power. Gloved fingers would yank and pull and shock until whatever was beneath his skull melted behind his eyes.

You were simply and innocently curious. Albeit a bit wobbly and unsure with your fingers.

“No clue what I’m looking at.” You nudged at a weird metallic square with purple script where a stomach would be. “This one looks important, though.” You then knocked on it, and his ear buzzed in tune with your knuckles. Found it. There were two wires from the square that crept up suspiciously close towards his ears.

As you worked, his hearing faded in and out. You’d asked him questions throughout, even having to wave a hand in his face when you noticed he was completely unaware that you’d spoken at all.

It wasn’t as jarring as he would’ve thought it’d be; although, there was an aching disappointment in his chest when your voice didn’t come through in his head properly.

His hearing eventually came to properly. He could feel the tugging and harsh pulling of the circuitry and wires controlling his ears, but the buzzing eventually subsided. Relief was light on his shoulders when he could finally sit still for longer than five seconds.

But even though his ears were fixed, and he clearly wasn’t twitching anymore, you’d barely moved from your spot with feeling hands.

He sighed. “You’re taking a long time considering how much you prattle on about your ‘inventive genius.’”

“I’m having my fun.” Experimentally, you pulled at one of the actuators, and his right index finger twitched involuntarily in response. “You’re a work of art.”

“Whatever comes out of your mouth never fails in making me want to shrivel into a ball and die. Did you know that?”

You tugged at another mysterious wire and his shoulder jolted violently. You were smiling, knocking his rib cage softly. “This is so cool.”

You whistled a tune while you tended to him. More yanks of things you didn’t understand like some sort of toddler on your end, but he figured if it made you happy and satiated that never ending curiosity, he’d let it slip through his fingers.

Just this once.

Patience was not his forte, however, because soon enough, the uncomfortable persistence of hands where there shouldn’t be was weighing heavy on his chest like an anvil.

He grunted. “Are you finished groping me?”

“I could do this forever, I think.” There was that stupid smile still printed onto your lips. “I’d love to pull you to pieces and see what happens.”

“A strange proclamation that I won’t let happen, unless you don’t want to keep your hands.” The restraints were like lead wrapped around his limbs. “Stop drooling over me and hurry up.”

You sighed, disappointed. “Yes, princess.” You closed up the hearing compartment, making sure you hadn’t ruined anything else before allowing the exterior skin to slide back over the hole in his torso. “I’m finished.”

He was disgusted by the appalling nickname.

But, you seemed pleased.

He was proud of himself for it, and secretly pocketed the pride. However, the scowl remained on his face.

“So…” You moved to unbuckle the restraints. “Where’s my ‘thank you?’”

“Shouldn’t I be receiving one for being so generous?” When you froze with the restraints, a reminder of who was at a disadvantage here, he let out an exasperated sigh, before mumbling, “thank you.”

“Mm-hm. You’re welcome.” You leaned over the table. “And where’s my kiss?”

“You’re an insufferable rodent and I should squash you beneath my heel,” he threatened through his teeth.

You remained frustratingly unperturbed. “One kiss or you can stay on the table.”

“I will spit in your face.”

“Fine.” You unbuckled the restraints. “You’re missing out.”

“I’m sure I am.”

You blew a raspberry at him before you dusted off your hands. You really needed a shower, actually, but the broken machine sitting in all its glory with a pungent oil leak was staring at you with big bug eyes.

You kicked it in retaliation.

While you moped, the puppet struggled with an inner turmoil. He was still standing by the table, testing out his hand—not that he really needed to, actually. You’d helped him many times before, all with precision. You’d never let him leave with a problem.

And that was the thing.

He felt he did have a problem, and his skin felt like it was alight.

His hand was fine, and the incessant buzzing in his ear had finally ceased.

He heard you flop back down into the swivel chair for a moment, hands in your hair as you moved around the circumference of the base, trying to eye where the leak was coming from.

He turned with a spout of quickly dying determination.

A tweak of one of the bolts in the machine had a spring of black petroleum target your face and thoroughly drenched you.

You looked like a sad, wet cat.

He was heating up, and his mind wandered elsewhere.

“Hey.”

You turned around defeatedly in the now wet swivel seat, clicking a pen you’d just found absentmindedly. “Yep.”

His lips pressed to your own.

When you tried to lean forward closer to him, tried anything, to pull him onto the chair with you, or let your fingers creep towards his hips, he shoved you back into the chair and left.

In absolutely no world would he let you witness the bright blue beneath his skin flickering to life with heat all over.

You tasted like oil. There was a black smear across his lips that he frantically fought rubbing off all the way back to the city.

#scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x you #wanderer x you #✦ ( the macrocosmos. )

302 notes · View notes

chlaka · 2 years ago

Text

Down The Hole Drilling | Chlaka

Down the Hole Drilling Machine!

Down the hole drilling is a method of drilling deep boreholes in rock formations, where a drill bit is attached to a drill string that passes through a hammer assembly and is driven by compressed air or other fluids.

Feel free to contact us today for more info on down the hole drilling machines!

#Down the Hole Drilling #Hole Drilling Machine #Chlaka

2 notes · View notes

glossysoap · 1 year ago

Text

ready to comply iv - непоправимый

непоправимый or irreparable,

is defined as; (of an injury or loss) impossible to rectify or repair.

warnings: pov changes, mentions of previous amputation, themes of depression, mentions of red room typical misogyny and s/a. also, introducing another marvel character !! this one’s an asshole HYDRA and red room soldiers are misogynists, but no explicit fem pronouns are used, so you can easily imagine the reader as still gender neutral.

note: like always, russian is in bolded italics, the english translation will be right after in non bolded italics.

prev chapters here!

word count: 3,723

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @kiroshang @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @briacreations96 @zvdvdlvr @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad

When you passed out in the chair during your amputation, the doctors didn’t stop their work. They continued sawing through until your left arm fell clean off, and your shoulder was met with cold air.

Once the amputation was complete, the main doctor cleaned and wrapped the wound to prevent any infections.

The doctors’ all scanned your unconscious figure up and down, hungry and lustful. Every doctor practically undressing you with their eyes, burning holes into any piece of exposed skin. Their eyes lingered on your heaving chest, before moving down to the space between your legs.

“You know as well as I do that we don’t have time for that. As much as we all want to. We need to get the arm replaced and put the subject into cryo as soon as possible.” A new voice entered the room, a New York accent this time. It was a muscular American soldier wearing a tight muscle shirt, cargo pants and boots. His hair was dark, almost black and he sported a mohawk with barely any fades on the sides. His mouth wore a disappointed frown as he stared at the subject.

The way he spoke about you was dehumanizing. He didn’t refer to you as a person, only ‘the arm’ and as ‘the subject’. He spoke about you like a piece of meat or a warm hole to use as he pleased.

He beckoned the doctors over to stand by his side with just a flick of the wrist. It was clear that he had more privileges than anyone else in the room. As far as they were concerned, whatever he says goes.

“Of course. Right away, Sir.” The doctor said with a nod.

Two doctors left the room and a few minutes later, returned carrying a heavy metal case. They carried the case over to the table of medical instruments that sat next to your chair. All of the doctors began prepping for the second procedure. Two doctors ensured that all of your restraints were secure, tightening all of them just in case you woke up and became violent. Another two doctors left the room to retrieve a large metal case, before returning to wait at the door for orders. Finally, the last doctor was preparing your shoulder for the new arm. He turned to the tray full of medical equipment and picked up a steel circle plate that was measured and cut to fit your shoulder exactly.

The plate had different ridges and serrated blades on it, meant to make it excruciatingly painful to remove the arm. In being excruciatingly painful, it meant that it might as well have been permanently welded to you.

The blades were on both sides of the plate, so it wouldn’t just help to attach the arm - but if anyone attempted to remove the arm, the blades that were against your shoulder would dig into your already shredded flesh.

He pressed the steel plate flat against the stump of your amputated arm, steel against shattered bone and mangled flesh.

“винты, сейчас.” Screws, now. The doctor ordered with his hand outstretched. An assisting doctor quickly handed him the thick screws.

The doctor then held the first screw against the plate before picking up the drill from the tray of instruments.

He turned it on by pulling the metal trigger and the machine whirred to life. One by one, he drilled ten screws through the plate and into your shoulder. The drill met your bone each time and made a dull, knocking noise as the screws were forced in. More blood seeped from around the plate as the screws kept shredding your already torn muscle.

The assisting doctor huffed, seemingly inconvenienced, and pressed gauze pads to the edge of the metal plate to absorb the blood.

“Субъект готовится к протезированию.” Subject is prepped for prosthetic. The doctor said, waving over the two doctors that were waiting by the door with the metal case.

The two doctors walked the case over, each doctor letting out grunts with how heavy it was. They set it down in front of the doctor that was preparing your shoulder before leaning down to unlock the case.

The case opened with a hiss, vapor pooling from the cold container. Inside the case was a metal prosthetic arm, molded almost perfectly to the size of your actual arm. It was silver with a red star engraved just below the shoulder. It matched the red star that was engraved on the double door exactly. The arm was covered in ridges to promote mobility, flexibility and functionality that perfectly mirrored a human arm.

The doctor sitting next to you reached to pick up the metal arm with great care, immediately feeling the heaviness of the prosthetic. He carried it over to the tray of instruments before setting it down gently. The arm made a metallic clinking noise when it made contact with the rest of the metal tools.

He picked the prosthetic up by the shoulder and the elbow, supporting the heaviest parts of the arm.

He aligned the shoulder of the metal arm up to your amputated shoulder before clicking into the ridges of the plate and locking the arm in place.

The ridges that ran down the metal arm shifted as he tested the mobility of the prosthetic, bending it and then straightening it.

He determined that the prosthetic replacement was successful.

“Субъект готов к помещению в криогенную камеру.” The subject is ready to be placed in the cryogenic chamber.

(….)

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since your capture.

Fourteen days since you fell for the redheads trick and right into her trap. Fourteen days since you were stabbed and your arm was broken. Fourteen days since you crashed into that freezing water and dragged in the biting Russian snow. Fourteen days since you were yanked from the woman's grip and shackled into that chair.

Thirteen days since you were torn from your drug induced sleep, injected with an off market drug and forced to witness your arm being cut off. Thirteen days since you saw pools of blood gush and spurt from where your shoulder was supposed to be. Thirteen days since you heard the revving of the saw as it spliced through the meat of your muscle and tendons. Thirteen days since you could smell the burning of your flesh and skin being cauterized by the saw. Thirteen days since you saw your own fucking bone being cut through, splintering off and shattering.

Thirteen days since you were torn apart and put back together you’ll never be whole again. Thirteen days since you were put in the cryogenic chamber and frozen in time. During those thirteen days, you were pumped full of various drugs. Many to keep you sedated, pliant, obedient for them to do what they wished. Others to heighten your senses and strength.

Now, it had only been one hour since you were taken out of the cryogenic chamber and transferred to a new room.

This room was small and lonely with no windows. The only light that the room had was shitty panels on the ceiling that kept flickering on and off. The ceiling was dusted in cobwebs and dirt. The walls and floor were all concrete, cold to the touch. The door was locked with a deadbolt.

You were laying on a hard, small cot in the corner of the room with no blankets or pillows. You had been changed out of your tattered, bloody uniform and into a black muscle shirt and black cargo pants. The muscle shirt was long sleeved, but only on your right arm - on you left arm, it was sleeveless, leaving your new prosthetic arm on full display.

You awoke with a gasp as your eyes flew open. The first thing you noticed was that you had no idea or recollection of how you got here. The last thing you remembered was getting on that helicopter with that woman.

Your memories were in fragments, returning in bits and pieces. Trying to comfort that woman only to have her break your arm and stab you. Her killing Nikolai. The helicopter going down. Falling unconscious only to wake up in that hallway. Being chained to that chair.

Before you could even begin to attempt to remember anything further, you noticed something else. Something that made your blood run cold and stopped your thoughts in their tracks.

You noticed that your left arm was.. numb. It wasn’t even just a pins and needles feeling. It felt like nothing. You racked your brain trying to figure out how you injured your arm and why it’s so numb.

You spared a curious glance at the afflicted arm only to be met with the sight of metal where your arm should be.

“No..” You whispered, lips trembling.

Where your warm flesh should be was now replaced with a metal prosthetic robotic arm. All of the scars you had collected over time and the tattoos that previously painted your skin were now replaced with ridges and indentations that ran down the arm.

“No.” You cried out in disbelief and despair. The more you looked at it, the less you could breathe.

The arm felt like a parasite invading your body, eating away at your flesh and polluting your blood stream. Even though it was attached to you, it couldn’t feel more foreign. Alien.

Your lungs burned and your vision blurred as you tried to inhale but it was as if your throat was paralyzed. With every passing second came an onslaught of burning and stabbing pain that ebbed from your arm prosthetic and flowed through the rest of your body.

As each wave of pain washed over your body, a new memory hit you. The doctor injecting you with an off market drug that flayed you alive from the inside out. The doctor bringing out a bone saw and cutting through your skin and muscle. Just remembering the smell of your flesh burning was enough to make you gag in the present. You remembered the saw finally hitting your bone and causing it to splinter and shatter. You remembered passing out from the pain and shock. You remembered all of the nightmares you had while you were unconscious, all of the different loops where you could’ve escaped — only to fail every time.

You only knew that you had started sobbing from the taste of your salty tears as they fell down your cheeks. Your throat went raw as you wailed, curling into a ball on the uncomfortable bed. As you were curled into a fetal position, your head was resting against your knees which is how you realized you were no longer in your uniform.

Your eyes widened and you felt sick.

Someone had undressed you in your unconscious, vulnerable state. Someone had gazed upon your naked, bloody body with their filthy eyes. You could only hope it wasn’t any of those men.

You shivered at the thought of what would have happened if it was them. You were hesitant to pull down your cargo pants in fear of finding any evidence of abuse or trauma. You could only imagine what you might find; the myriad of wounds on your thighs from brute force or dried blood running down your legs. You opted to not look altogether.

In an effort to expel those nauseating thoughts from your mind, you thought about your team instead.

You thought about how they might have reacted when you never returned from the helicopter. Would they have sent out a search team to find you?

You laughed humorlessly. Probably not. No, definitely not.

Not that you blamed them. They had a mission to focus on. They couldn’t afford to just drop everything and look for their run-of-the-mill medic. Especially not when you could be replaced so easily.

They could find a skilled medic at any time, at any place. Sure, you were good at your job, but they could find that anywhere. And they could definitely find one that wasn’t a distraction to two of their top soldiers.

Even if they did send out a search team and even if they did find you by some miracle, what use would you be to them now?

What use could you possibly be to them when you were drugged for two weeks on end? What use were you if you couldn’t even look at the metal arm without losing your lunch?

You were of no use to them anymore, so you might as well be thrown away.

It was better that way, you thought. Resigning yourself to being inevitably replaced, you thought about what your team they might have thought when they found out about you disappearing.

Captain Price would be concerned with your whereabouts, just like he would if it happened to anyone else on his team. He would demand details from Shepherd and Laswell. But then he would inevitably find out about his friends death and any concern for you would be tainted.

Kyle would be hopeful for a time. He would probably push for a rescue team to be sent for you, only to be shut down by Shepherd.

Pondering about how Johnny and Simon would react is what hurt the most, though.

In all honesty, you knew deep down that the two men would recover from your disappearance quickly. They had each other, after all.

Sure, they might be sad for a few days or weeks but it would blow over, you thought.

They would be able to focus their attention and energy on each other instead of you. They wouldn’t be distracted from their work or their relationship by some outsider.

It was clear to you. Their lives would only improve after your disappearance. They would no longer feel obligated to include you in hushed conversations. They would no longer feel obligated to pull you in for hugs or forehead kisses that you knew weren’t meant for you. You would no longer be a burden to them.

Any trace of you would be sponged from the base, just like any other personnel that was assumed killed in action. You’d seen it all before. You just never thought it would happen to you.

The records of all of your treated patients would be sealed away. You would be removed from payroll and staff records. Your quarters would be emptied of all of your belongings and your title plate would be removed from your door. A replacement lead surgeon would be interviewed and hired. Soon, that replacement would be filling your med-bay, your operating room, with new patients. They would be treating your 141.

It would be as if you never existed.

And a voice in your head screamed, it would be better that way.

(….)

Unbeknownst to you, thousands of miles away in the United Kingdom, the men had just discovered that you were missing in action and presumably, killed in action.

They were standing in that conference room with Laswell and Shepherd, watching the devastating security footage. The last they saw on the footage was the camera sinking in the ocean along with the helicopter.

The screen went black and bubbles filled the audio as it sunk to the ocean floor.

Laswell slammed her laptop shut, turning off the projector at the same time.

The silence that filled the room was deafening. The air was thick as the task force tried to swallow the news of your disappearance. It was heavy — sinking to their stomachs, similar to how the helicopter sunk to the ocean floor.

John Price’s fists were white knuckling, his jaw was clenched as he thought about his brightest medic dying.

Kyle's lips were pulled into a frown and he sniffled as he thought about not having someone to share inside jokes with.

Simon was still seeing red. The burning embers of his anger painted his vision, matching the crimson that he saw soaking your uniform. His mouth was pulled into a snarl as rage bubbled beneath his chest. Rage against Shepherd for keeping this from them. The task force could’ve started looking for you that very day. They could’ve found you days ago if they knew. Rage against that woman for playing possum and using your kind spirit to lure you into her trap. Finally, rage against himself for not telling you how he felt sooner. He shouldn’t have been such a coward. He should’ve just toughened up and confessed. No matter if you felt the same or not, at least you would’ve known.

Johnny's lips were trembling and his eyes were filled with unshed tears. His throat felt heavy and tight, like it was wrapped in barbed wire that he couldn’t loosen. The gaping hole in his chest was widening every second that your screams echoed in his head. He tried to take deep breaths but he just couldn’t, it was like he was frozen. Paralyzed in fear and shock. He would never see you again. The last thing he ever heard from you was your bloodcurdling screams.

He couldn’t fucking breathe.

Johnny tightly squeezed Simon's gloved hand, getting his attention. The Lieutenant’s bloodshot eyes flashed to Johnny’s cerulean glossy eyes. What sent Simon into even more of a panic was that Johnny was hyperventilating. It was no doubt a panic attack from losing their missing piece.

Simon squeezed his hand in reassurance.

“Cap, we need to..” The words died on Simon's lips, but it was obvious what he was getting at. Captain Price nodded at his Lieutenant, letting him know that him and Johnny were free to go.

The two soldiers stood from their seats as Price cleared his throat.

“When is the search starting?” He asked quietly, blue eyes trained on a blank spot on the table.

“I want all of our allies in on this. Farah, Alex, Alejandro, Rudy.. All of ‘em.” He continued, not waiting for an answer from either Laswell or Shepherd.

Laswell stayed silent, crossing her arms and sending a pointed look at Shepherd. She was done being Shepherd’s puppet and done keeping his secrets.

Price and Kyle looked at Laswell before their eyes darted to Shepherd.

“You know I can’t let you do that, John,” was the last thing Johnny and Simon heard as they walked out of the conference room.

Once the door shut behind them, Simon pulled Johnny into his arms and into a passionate kiss. He needed to be comforted, shielded in whatever way possible from the pain of losing you.

He moved to cradle Johnny's face in his hands, desperately holding his partner close. He licked at Johnny's lips and his tongue, needing to taste him. Johnny whined into his mouth at the feeling of his tongue being sucked.

As Simon kissed him, he could taste the saltiness of the Scot's tears as they fell down his cheeks. Simon's mouth moved from his lips to his cheeks, kissing his tears away. Johnny hiccupped as his cries died down, wearing a sad smile. Simon pulled him into his chest and wrapped his tattooed arms around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

After pulling apart, the two soldiers immediately made their way to your quarters. It was completely unintentional, it was as if their legs moved on autopilot.

Before they knew it, they were standing at your door. Simon's hand shook as he reached for the door knob. To their surprise, it was unlocked.

Simon opened it and as they walked in, they were immediately hit with the comforting smell associated with your room. The air fresheners you had plugged in were still releasing a pleasant vanilla fragrance into the air.

They savored the smell as they surveyed your room. Vanilla and berries lingered in their noses as they kicked off their shoes and took off their heavy gear, tossing it on your floor.

Your bed was still made, the (favorite color) comforter folded neatly on the bed and the four pillows were rested against the headboard.

Your desk still had some medical release forms stacked on it as well as some notepads. Your laptop was closed and plugged into the charger. There were some framed pictures of the task force sitting on your desk as well.

One that caught their eye was a selfie you had sneakily snapped one day. It was of you, Johnny and Simon. They remembered it clear as day. The two of them were sparring in the gym one day and you had snuck up behind them with your phone. Simon was taking a swig from his water bottle so you took that moment to nudge Johnny and reel him into your plan. The two of you rushed up to him on each side and Johnny held your phone up high to get a good view of the three of you. Simon's eyes were wide as he was caught off guard while you and Johnny couldn’t look happier. You two were wearing the biggest shit eating grins and your eyes were so bright.

Simon would give anything to be ambushed like that right now. To have you tackle him and Johnny, laughing about how this was all just a sick joke.

But it wasn’t, and he knew that.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Johnny took his hand and dragged him over to your bed. The two of them laid down against your soft bedsheet that had gone cold from you being gone for weeks.

The two of them pulled your comforter up over them, before cuddling up together. Johnny's head was buried in Simon's chest, with Simon pressing kisses to the crown of Johnny's head. Simon's arms were wrapped around Johnny's back, and Johnny's arms were snaked around Simon's midsection.

It took an hour for them to find sleep. The pit in the bottom of their stomachs made it impossible for them to relax or shut their brains off. All they could do was hold onto each other for dear life. All they could do was on to the only light that they had, now that you were gone. That only light was each other.

next chapter

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

#mw2 x reader #glossywrites; ready to comply⛓#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soap x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader x soap #johnny mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #modern warfare x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #SoundCloud #ghoap x reader

608 notes · View notes

chaosticbraindo · 5 months ago

Text

Kaijune - day 17: penetrate 🪲 🦿

Chaos Megalon

After Gigan’s defeat, an alien race known as Zetopyons followed its tract to earth. These beings are benevolent and lawful, planned to hunt down the rouge cyborg with their own creation that they worship as a god, Megalon. However, upon their arrival to the solar system… they suddenly changes course and began an attack on earth...

In truth, such a decision is not hard to understand. The solar system is now overran with powerful and unnaturally unstable kaijus number in the dozens, many of which are too powerful to even confront… Yet, as a race bound by law and order, for them to let such a dangerous place be is simply not an option.

As they look they realized that not only is Earth the source of the chaos, almost every kaijus that roams the planet are destroyers, and each have the power destroy entire planets worth of life forms- along with a massive tear that is barely clogged up with but a single benevolent kaiju. Knowing they are in way over their heads, they deployed Megalon before fleeing to seek help.

Megalon, after being left to on Earth in its pupa state, soon completes its metamorphosis and emerges. Addressing the most destructive threat around, it sees Rodan and made a B line towards its volcanic nest. Surprisingly, Gojira suddenly change course upon Megalon’s awakening and start moving towards the cyborg weapon in search of a confrontation, mistaking it for another cyborg kaiju, Gigan.

Of course, with the order to take out any kaiju it cross path with, Megalon have no qualms with confronting Gojira as well, slamming full speed into the atomic horror and punching a hole right through its torso with the combination of leg strength and drill arms. Ignoring the massive hole in its torso, Gojira began grappling the insectoid cyborg while being pushed for miles upon miles with each jump from Megalon.

different to Gigan who was made to be sharp, fast, and efficient in its killing, Megalon is built to be direct and powerful, fighting by leaping into the enemy and piercing them. Moreover, Megalon’s arsenal are more diverse than Gigan albeit less deadly. From powerful lightning to condensed napalms that explodes on contact, Megalon was more than capable of overwhelming Gojira. Beyond it all, Megalon have a natural power to freeze reality similar to that of Shimo. Unlike Shimo who express this ability in the form of a breath, however, Megalon can only use this ability to put up a flat barrier for a fraction of a second- yet, this barrier can still block all form of attack. With this power, not only can Megalon protect itself but also freeze the area beneath its paws, letting itself jump at full strength and not worry about sinking into the ground.

One would be hard pressed to find a kaiju that can best this juggernaut of a machine… but Gojira was one of those kaijus. With unrivaled regeneration and immense physical strength alone, Gojira was able to take on attacks one would consider lethal- without even letting go, all while slowly crushing the protective shell of Megalon and showering the cyborg with its atomic breath. Megalon, powerful as it was, was lacking in both regenerative powers and resilience, and was soon taking on damage beyond repair.

after a battle that was rather short but of unrivaled intensity, Megalon slump down, having one of its leg, its strongest asset, torn right out of its socket. In a last ditch attempt to take out Gojira, it open its maw to let out a final napalm barrage but was unfortunately hit in turn. Having an atomic breath blasting directly to the mouth, all the napalms within Megalon goes off, exploding itself from the inside out.

#kaiju #kaiju art #creature design #kaijune #monster #fangoji #godzilla #megalon

54 notes · View notes

thanotaphobia · 1 year ago

Text

There is a lot Tubbo does not think about these days.

His brain is constantly going a hundred kilometers an hour; thoughts and emotions and plans running wild, ideas crowding each other to the point of entity cramming. Machine blueprints and scheming plans. Nothing illegal. He would never.

(A lie. He does not think about the blueprints scribbled under tables and hidden behind book shelves, carved into his own skin with his teeth ideas for drills a thousand, a million chunks wide.)

He tinkers at night and sleeps in the day, waking in fits and starts. Tubbo is never warm enough- he shivers underneath three thick woolen blankets Philza lended him and sits beside lava, holding his hands out to warm it. The machinery is warm. Machinery is alive, breathing and producing heat beneath his hands.

Tubbo doesn't think about ice, and he doesn't think about the things he doesn't remember. He knows Phil. He knows Fit. He knows, strangely, Etoiles and the others. Not well. Faint, indiscriminate nostalgia. He writes it all down in the margins of an architectural plan and brick and mortars the roll of paper into the wall of the building.

Snow crunches beneath his feet and he flinches so hard he drops his pickaxe. His insides itch. Guilt eats his heart from the inside out. If he were to look into a mirror, he's not sure he would recognize his own face.

Phil tells him it's normal. Phil tells him he'll get used to it. Tubbo says he doesn't know what Phil is talking about, because he knows Phil and doesn't know how and is not thinking about that undeniable fact.

Something about Phil soothes his nerves like a balm, same with Niki. Like kin, they know each other. Phil recognizes him even when Tubbo can't. There are holes in his memory like melting ice, the edges sharp as knives. Everything in unapproachable. He doesn't let it stop him.

"I think I've died before," Tubbo tells Phil late one night, both of them sitting up by lantern light and squinting at their notebooks in silence.

"Yeah," Phil says, charcoal staining his hands. It stains his face where he's touched his own skin absently, smearing inky void across his cheeks like war paint. "Like everyone else."

"I think I froze to death," Tubbo says. He's got a black cloak around his shoulders, but it smells like grass and dirt, not soot and ash. It belongs to Missa. He wiggles his hand out from beneath the fabric, staring at his right pinky and ring finger. They are made of metal. Using the mechanism is as natural as breathing. Tubbo knows his own handiwork; he just doesn't remember building it. Or losing the fingers. He doesn't remember how he got most of his scars. "Maybe I exploded. I think it's gonna happen again."

"Don't get your hopes up," Phil says, voice lagging as he only pays half-attention. Tubbo doesn't care.

"I'll just cheat death," Tubbo proclaims. He looks down at his scribbled drawings, and his chest swells with an indescribable emotion.

Across the room, Phil snorts, as though he's just thought of an inside joke. Tubbo is not in on it. He doesn't think about how he almost laughs himself anyway. He just tucks himself back inside of Missa's cloak and does not think of ice.

#qsmp #qsmp tubbo #qsmp philza #qsmp fic #my writing

252 notes · View notes

valiantstarlights · 1 year ago

Text

[Personal Trainer!Dream AU] Chapter 2: (Much Ado About) Gym Clothes

Chapter 1: First Meeting

This is still for @sadrumihours , who shared Tom Sturridge's highly educational 😏 training videos (part one & part two), as well as everyone who yelled in the comments and reblog tags. I see you all and I love each and every one of you. 🖤

Disclaimer: These are once again just vibes because I still don't know a single thing about gym stuff. Will someone please tell me what the equipment Tom is using called? Because I'm still calling it stretchy jump rope machine in my head. 😭

CW (and summary): Dream being his usual thirsty-for-Hob self, Hob being insecure about his body, and Johanna trying to be a supportive sister to Hob. (Keyword being: 'trying.') This chapter contains spicy spice! Enjoy? 😏

Mojo Jojo

Jo, what do I wear to the gym???

uh, gym clothes?

(You sent a photo.)

Is this okay??

i guess?

why are you being weird?

you're just going to the gym, not going on a date

WAIT, ARE YOU???

HOBERT

answer me or i'm gonna come over and steal all your teeth

I bought pizza since I know you're coming over from your shoot anyway

fine

you can keep both your secrets and your teeth for one more day

"That's it, Professor," Mr. Endless--Dream, says next to his ear, low and inviting. His hands are cool as they caress Hob's overheated and very sensitive inner thighs, and his eyes, so dark and so close to Hob's own, are laser-focused on his panting, straining face. "One more. Just one more for me."

Hob's cheeks are already streaked with tears. How many hours has it been? How much more until they're done? Until he's told that he's been good? "Mr. Endless, please--"

Dream has moved to inspect his position. He adjusts Hob's legs so they spread even wider. The change in angle makes him sob, but Dream shushes him and he leans all the way down to lick at his rim.

Hob wails, body jolting against the restraints. His muscles are already so sore, but he wants to be good.

"You can do it, Professor," Dream says, lightly tapping at his taint to encourage his muscles to clench. "This is the last one."

Hob cries and wiggles, breathes slowly and purposefully like how he has been taught, and forcibly relaxes his muscles one by one, until finally, finally, he manages to push out the last large anal egg from his body with a soft moan.

It plops wetly onto Dream's waiting hand, and the man hums approvingly as Hob's hole gapes for a second before winking closed again.

"Very good," Dream purrs against his rim and dips his tongue into Hob's loosened hole. Hob keens and thrashes against his bonds again. It was so humiliating, but he loves every second of it. He can feel his body slowly becoming stronger, and he owes it all to Dream.

"You see what you can do?" Dream asks, now inserting his long, clever fingers inside him. "What your body can achieve with my guidance?" He moves his fingers in and out slowly, the squelch of the remaining lube loud in the room. "I'm so proud of you, Professor. Only a few sessions in and you're already my beautiful, obedient little slut." He emphasizes his words by drilling his fingers unerringly against Hob's prostate. Hob cries and bucks up, helpless and overwhelmed, unable to do anything else with how good he had been tied up.

"Please, Mr. Endless--"

"Mr. Endless?" Dream repeats. "You have to be specific, Professor Gadling. Are you calling for my brother?"

Hob shakes his head wildly. "No. No, please. I mean you. Just you, sir, no one else. You know that."

Dream rewards him with a soft kiss against the head of his cock. "And what's my name, Professor?" he asks. "What's the name that you'll be screaming in ecstasy for the rest of your life?"

"D-Dream," Hob gasps. "Dream--"

"Good boy," Dream says, and returns to his hole to suck hickeys around the rim. Hob hopes he bruises well. He hopes he'll feel all the love bites Dream gives him every time he sits down. "Shall I give you your reward now?"

Hob remembers last time, when his reward was Dream spanking his hole directly until it was red and puffy, and then fucking him that way, all the while praising him for being so virgin tight.

"Yes, please," Hob says, voice cracking a little. He wants to move. He wants to wrap his arms around Dream and kiss him softly while they fuck. He wants to be called sweet and good and mine.

But in the end, Dream is still his trainer, and he knows Hob's body best. He knows Hob's body better than Hob himself, now. And if he tells Hob he has to wear a vibrating plug while he uses the stationary bike, then he will.

He'll cry and stumble and cum in his underwear countless times, and Dream will coo and kiss his tears away, but he'll do it. Has done it. It had increased his stamina exponentially.

"Very well," Dream says. He leans over Hob so they could share a kiss while he lines his cock up against Hob's waiting hole. "You have been so good for me today, and I think that means you deserve a treat, yes?"

Hob nods, biting his lip at the incredible pressure as the head of Dream's large cock pushes against his rim--

Hob's alarm blares at max volume, and he jolts awake, blindly reaching for his phone to turn it off.

It takes him a few seconds, and once that's done, he's awake enough to notice the sticky feeling in his underwear. He moves the covers aside and peeks inside his boxers.

...Great. Not only did he have an incredibly realistic wet dream (ha) starring his personal trainer, but he's also currently sporting a semi.

Thank goodness he set his alarm hours before he has to go to the gym. He still has time to do some...preliminary stretching.

He blushes as he grabs his favorite dildo, which he had placed conveniently beside his pillow last night, as well as the bottle of lube beside it.

He's already ashamed of himself for thinking about Mr. Endless in such a manner, but try as he might, he can't conjure up the image of another person. Not since he met him.

Oh, he tried thinking about previous people he had a crush on, real and fictional, as well as local and international celebrities: actors and idols and athletes--to no avail. They always turn into Dream Endless in the end, looking down at him as they fuck in a variety of positions, usually missionary because Hob is a dumb romantic at heart, his gorgeous blue eyes loving and captivated, his lips forming 'Professor Gadling' or 'Hob' over and over again, his voice soft with awe and reverence.

It never fails to bring Hob to completion faster than he ever had before, when he had yet to be blessed about the knowledge of Dream Endless's existence. It was mortifying. His imagined scenarios always leave him whining and pressing his face against his pillow so he doesn't scream Mr. Endless's name out loud for the entire neighborhood to hear.

He knows it's pathetic, because it's not like Mr. Endless is going to look at him that way in real life. But if he's sad about it, crying a little like a lovesick fool after he cums, then that's his business and no one ever needs to know.

Boss Dream's newest trainee walks in the gym dressed in a thick hoodie and joggers, and Matthew starts sweating bullets just by looking at him. Is he going snowboarding with Boss Dream or something?

Nope. None of his business. Better just focus on getting the damn blender working.

"Good morning, Mr. Endless!" Professor Gadling says cheerfully as he rounds the corner to where Dream is waiting. "I hope it's alright that I'm a bit early today. I had to make up for last time."

He's an entire 15 minutes early, but Dream won't say no to spending more time with him. He had been reviewing today's agenda, but had turned around as soon as he heard Professor Gadling's voice. And he was just about to greet him back, when his eyes lift from the clipboard he's holding, and the smile falters in his face as he takes in what the man is wearing.

Dream had indicated in his email that they were going to do some mandatory stretches, and after that proceed to doing a full-body pre-test workout that would measure the professor's strength, endurance level, general dexterity, etc. It was important that they do this on the first session so that Dream could come up with a program specifically tailored for him and his end goal.

It was his mistake in assuming that Professor Gadling would do the sensible thing and wear something light. Not winter clothes in the middle of summer.

"Good morning, Professor Gadling," he says, as neutrally as he can manage. "You are dressed quite warmly."

Professor Gadling grimaces. "Oh. Well um, I'm afraid I don't really have gym clothes, and I haven't had the chance to buy some yet since, you know, school. And everything else I own are dress shirts and slacks and lounge wear. But don't worry! I'll go shopping this weekend." He pauses and smiles bashfully. It was just as devastating as Dream remembered. "Sorry. I'm talking too much again."

Meanwhile, Dream's mind had latched on to the words 'lounge wear,' and he imagines Professor Gadling casually walking around his house in nothing but short pajama bottoms.

"I see," he says, glad that he took the time this morning to get himself off so he won't be as tempted to push Professor Gadling against the nearest surface and really give him a full body workout. "Then please, if at any point you wish to take off a layer, feel free to do so."

"Oh, no," Professor Gadling says, still cheerfully. "I'm fine like this. Shall we begin?"

There's still a few minutes before they officially have to start, but Professor Gadling seems to want to begin immediately, so Dream nods and instructs him to stand with his feet shoulder width apart, and gets him to start stretching his upper body.

Professor Gadling obeys, following Dream's example as he demonstrates the set, counting to eight, then back to one again under his breath, before doing the next set without complaint.

Dream watches him closely, because he has to. It's why he notices that the professor's thick hoodie barely shifts, even as the man raises his hands upwards towards the ceiling and counts to 16.

A dark thought crosses Dream's mind then, that perhaps the reason Professor Gadling is wearing clothes that cover his entire body is because he's currently covered in love bites.

Dream clenches his teeth but breathes through it. He knows he's being possessive when he has no right to be, and that Professor Gadling has every right to sleep with whoever he wants.

But knowing these facts and acknowledging them to be logical and true does not stop Dream from hating whoever it was that is currently enjoying Professor Gadling's gorgeous body in bed, perhaps repeatedly throughout the night.

He wants to be that person. He will be that person. He is already fated to be that person.

If his brother Destiny is right about one thing, Dream fucking hopes that it's the power of manifestation, because he doesn't think he would just allow Professor Gadling to end up with someone else without challenging that person to a fight.

Mr. Endless is wearing a tight, sleeveless black shirt and slightly baggy joggers, and Hob is losing his mind. Has lost his mind as soon as he spotted the man a couple of minutes ago, standing by the large glass windows and reading something on his clipboard.

The sight of his toned arms are bad for Hob's concentration. And it's even worse when he circles Hob like a very observant vulture to check his position (just like in his dream) and bids him to raise his arms higher, or at one point, bend a little more to the right.

Hob can't bend as much as he used to in his twenties, but he is very determined to be super flexible at the end of this.

For health reasons, of course.

Mr. Endless demonstrates another pose to stretch the arm muscles, and in doing so calls Hob's attention to how his muscles bunch and flex. Hob is sure that they're far stronger than they look, and he has no doubt that Mr. Endless can carry heavy grocery bags without breaking a sweat.

Hob gets so far as picturing Mr. Endless's hands squeezing his thighs before he immediately shuts the thought down.

No. Absolutely not. And his previous thought about being flexible, too. Mr. Endless would be horrified, if not outright disgusted if he finds out that Hob is thinking about him in that manner.

Professor Gadling continues to obediently follow his orders, getting on the treadmill, walking, jogging, then running, complying as soon as Dream warns him about changing the treadmill's speed, and he does so without a single word of complaint.

Dream could not help but compare him to his past trainees, all of whom had complained on their first session about wanting to go straight to the workouts that would help them achieve their ideal body shape. But not Professor Gadling. He would listen and watch Dream's demonstration well, then immediately obey his orders or mimick his movements. Dream has to bite his tongue multiple times so he wouldn't slip up and say, 'good boy.'

Or worse, 'my good boy.'

Death is going to have Destruction break his spine if, out of all siblings, a sexual harassment complaint would be filed against him and not, say, Desire, who regularly flirts with their own trainees.

Cardio pre-test finished, Dream leads Professor Gadling to the weightlifting area, and once there, bids him to take 2 dumbbells that weighs 1 kilogram each, and do 16 squats while holding the weights.

While Professor Gadling gets the appropriate equipment from the rack, Dream lets his mind wander. Would Professor Gadling be obedient in bed, too? Or would he be a brat? Will Dream have to tame him, or is he already sweet and docile?

Dream imagines that the latter to be more likely, though he wouldn't mind if his lovely professor turns out to be an incorrigible brat in bed. He'll just have to spank him until he's pliant and good enough to deserve his treats.

Fuck. He's teaching. He should be more professional than this.

"Like this, Mr. Endless?"

Dream snaps from his ill-timed daydreams to scrutinize Professor Gadling's form, only to then hold back a lustful groan.

The man is squatting alright, but he's doing so improperly. His heels should be flat against the floor, but instead his thighs and calves are touching, and he's so low that he's almost kneeling on the floor.

Dream has an errant thought that Professor Gadling is being seductive on purpose, except one look at his genuinely unsure expression proves Dream wrong.

Definitely sweet and docile in bed.

Dream wants to eat him alive.

Were this a porno, Dream would tell him that he's doing a terrific job, and if he could please thrust his chest out more so Dream could admire them better. But since he's an actual trainer with the thinnest veneer of professionalism left, he bids Professor Gadling to stand up and instructs him on how to squat properly.

Except, of course, his improved and now very proper form isn't making Dream feel any better, as Professor Gadling now had his ass thrust out instead of his chest, and has to repeat the motion 15 more times.

Dream gets his bottle of vitamin water and drinks deeply, hoping to cool himself down enough to banish his lecherous thoughts.

It doesn't work.

Hob sees from the corner of his eye Mr. Endless drink from his water bottle and immediately looks away. He's glad he's already red from exercising.

When Mr. Endless corrected his squat earlier, he did so by placing a hand gently against Hob's lower back to guide him, and Hob barely bit back a moan from how good a simple, innocent touch from him felt, even through his thick hoodie.

He feels like such a shameless pervert.

Once the assessment is (finally) over, Dream praises Professor Gadling for a job well done, valiantly ignores the shy, pleased look on the man's face, and instead goes on to tell him that he's doing okay overall, but needs more work in certain areas.

Dream does not specify which ones, telling him that he still needs to study the data and compile them together before emailing the whole thing to him.

In truth, Dream does not trust himself to look straight into Professor Gadling's lovely dark brown eyes and say words like 'stamina' and 'flexibility' without exposing the level of hunger he's currently feeling for him.

So yes. Dream will email him his pre-test results later, but he does not tell him that he will only do so after a good long wank.

Professor Gadling, totally unaware of his inner turmoil, only nods understandably, and agrees to read Dream's email as soon as his schedule allows him to. He must be sweating like crazy underneath his get-up, but his choice of clothes show no evidence of it.

Dream worries, and his mouth opens before he can stop it. "Professor Gadling," he says, just as the man had turned away to go to the nearby drinking fountains.

"Yes, Mr. Endless?"

Dream doesn't want to keep him any longer from the fountains than he has to. But next time, he's going to make sure to bring an extra bottle of vitamin water for him, so he could take a sip anytime without going all the way across the room and falling in line.

Dream is also going to be mature about not staring at his throat while he drinks. "When you go shopping for gym clothes, you may want to consider buying lighter fabrics."

"Oh, no, I'm absolutely fine with these," Professor Gadling says, and sounds sincere about it that Dream drops the subject.

"Very well," he says. He will not force him. Professor Gadling's comfort is paramount. If that means that Dream would have to adjust their lesson plans to include more water breaks, then that's what he'll do. "I shall see you next session."

He turns away before he could be tempted to watch Professor Gadling go. He does not think about the possibility that the hoodie might actually belong to Professor Gadling's boyfriend, who is probably waiting for him to get back home, and very eager to get him back in bed.

He has no right to be jealous.

Hob opens his gym bag and starts to take out his clean change of clothes when the texture of the shirt made him pause.

That's not the shirt he folded last night.

He takes the folded black shirt out, wonders at its suddenly lighter weight, then shakes it open to see if he had mistakenly folded another shirt.

As soon as the garment is revealed, however, he shoves it back in his bag, then shakes the accompanying bottom garment open. When that was revealed, he also shoves it back in the bag.

Then, slowly and mindfully, he breathes for a solid minute before he takes out his phone and texts his sister.

Mojo Jojo

Jo what the hell

what

(You sent a photo.)

Why are your gym clothes in my bag???

they're not mine stupid

i had ric buy them yesterday specifically for you

?????

for your ~mysterious~ gym crush to notice you (u///u)❤️

anyway don't worry and just wear them

they'll fit you

That's not the point!

A crop top and booty shorts???

you're right. the booty shorts are fine, but the crop top is too plain.

i should have told ric to pick the other one that says 'daddy's little fuck toy' 😂

JOHANNA CONSTANTINE-GADLING

pfft coward

i'm gonna tell ric to go back to the store and buy the fuck toy crop top

oops the director is shouting at me to get in place bye gtg

Hob is typing another scathing reply in all caps when he hears footsteps stop a short distance from him.

"Professor Gadling?"

Great. The last person in the world he wanted to see right at this very moment.

Hob smiles awkwardly and stows his phone back in his bag. "Mr. Endless."

"Is everything alright?"

Right. Shit. He hasn't even showered yet. He's probably stinking up the place and being a nuisance near the lockers.

"Everything's fine," Hob says, waving the man's concern away. "Just. Sisters being sisters. With their weird and very inappropriate sense of humor."

Someday, he'll learn how to shut his big mouth and stop at 'everything's fine.'

"I'm sure all sisters suffer from having a weird sense of humor," Mr. Endless says politely. "May I ask what your sister has done?"

Hob sighs deeply and zips his bag closed. It's fine. He'll just go shower at home. And anyway, it's not like he has to take the Tube and subject everyone to his sweaty self after a workout. Thank god he drove here. "Better not. If even I, as her brother, didn't find it funny, I very much doubt that you will."

"And yet you remain troubled," Mr. Endless says, and now his brows are furrowed in concern. "Please. I know this is not any of my business, but I would like to help you, if I can."

The fact that Mr. Endless looks very sincere makes Hob want to cry.

And he knows he shouldn't show him. He knows that Mr. Endless should be the last person in the world Hob should show these to. But he figures, what the hell. He could just quit via email as soon as he gets home and never have cause to see Mr. Endless or be seen in the vicinity of Endless Gym ever again.

Maybe it would even be for the best if he did that. Then he would stop having all these unsavory thoughts about him while the man is only trying to do his job.

He sighs and opens his bag once more, tilting it a little so Mr. Endless could see its contents. "My sister swapped my clean change of clothes for these."

Mr. Endless looks inside, and Hob can just see in his mind's eye what the other man saw: an extremely short, short-sleeved, solid black crop top with a deep V-neck that would barely cover Hob's chest area, and slutty black booty shorts with the phrase, 'SQUEEZE ME' printed on the butt area, complete with a cute yellow lemon emoji.

Although to be fair, 'crop top' is a generous term to use for the upper garment in the bag. It's too small and resembles a short-sleeved bra more than a crop top. From a single glance, Hob knows that even if it did fit him, it would be so tight that it would force his pecs to form a cleavage and leave his underboobs exposed.

He cringed internally at the image that would make, and could only imagine the utter revulsion Mr. Endless is feeling right now.

Dream had leaned over to inspect the contents of Professor Gadling's bag, expecting everything from a shark onesie to a clown suit.

Instead he sees further fuel for his already full folder of Professor Gadling-centric fantasies.

He could just imagine the crop top and the booty shorts on the man, and how he'd look like exercising while wearing them.

He had half a mind to ask for his sister's number so he could personally extend his gratitude to her, but doesn't dare to, in case Professor Gadling gets the wrong idea.

He inhales slowly and leans away, placing his hands neatly behind his back so Professor Gadling would not be in danger of being pushed against the lockers and fucked within an inch of his life. Dream did not fail to notice the distinct lack of underwear among the clean change of clothes, and now his mind is working overtime imagining himself standing behind Professor Gadling as he runs on the treadmill, the tiny shorts and the lack of proper underwear leaving nothing to the imagination. Imagines pressing himself against the professor's sweaty back after, the man still panting and out of breath, and pulling down his cute little shorts to jerk him off as a reward for a job well done.

"I see your dilemma," Dream says calmly, like this is an incident that happens every so often and not a cause for alarm or humiliation. "Fortunately, we have a stock of clean clothes in the staff locker room, in case staff members need to change for some reason or another. If you could please stay here for a while, I'm going to get you a clean change of clothes with more coverage."

Yes. It is imperative that he provides Professor Gadling with more conservative clothing than the ones currently in his bag. Otherwise, other people would see and covet what Dream has already envisioned as his. And that will definitely not do.

"Oh," Professor Gadling says, looking incredibly moved by his words. He's probably thinking how kind Dream is, while Dream is still thinking about how easy it would be to fuck his thighs after jerking him off, using the man's own cum as lube. How he would then make an even bigger mess of him and not clean him up after. That way, everyone would know that Professor Gadling is Dream's and Dream's only. "Are you sure? I don't want to trouble you unnecessarily."

"It's no problem at all," Dream says. In his mind, he imagines the man's thighs covered in both their cum, and Professor Gadling scooping some of it up and sucking on his fingers, curious as to what their mixed spend would taste like. "I have also been at the receiving end of a couple of my siblings' pranks, and would not wish another to suffer similarly." When Professor Gadling opened his mouth, possibly to protest, Dream holds up a hand and adds, "Please. I insist."

"Oh. Well then...thank you, Mr. Endless," Professor Gadling says, his dark brown eyes sparkling like precious gems in his gratefulness. Dream wants to kiss him all over. "You're a lifesaver."

Dream speedwalks to the staff locker room, checks to see if the coast is clear, immediately locks himself in a stall, drops his joggers and underwear, and starts jerking himself off furiously.

He barely even had to spit on his palm for lubrication, and he knows it wouldn't take long. He's already so aroused.

He has to do this.

If he doesn't, then Professor Gadling would be in an even greater danger when Dream hands him his clean (and much more conservative) change of clothes, and gets to be on the receiving end of his shy gratitude.

He imagines Professor Gadling, usually so buttoned up, only wearing that infernal crop top and booty shorts in Dream's favorite color, with those taunting fucking words--

"There's a good boy," his imagined self says to a kneeling Professor Gadling, who is pressing his tits closer together to create a valley where Dream could rut his cock against.

"I could...squeeze them even tighter, if you want?" his imagined Professor Gadling says, maintaining his naive, unsure aura about him even as his lips are slick and red from sucking on Dream's cock. "I want you to feel good, Mr. Endless."

Dream cums at the thought of marking Professor Gadling's face and hairy tits with his seed, and him shyly licking his lips for a taste of Dream's cum, moaning in delight when he finds Dream's spend to be thick and delicious. Dream is going to eat more pineapples, just for him. He's going to make Professor Gadling addicted to the taste of his cum that no other cum would do.

"Thank you for lending me your clothes, Mr. Endless," he would say, because he's polite like that. He would lean forward to milk Dream's cock more, making sure to get every last drop, before making a show of swallowing everything down, save for the cum marking him as Dream's. "And for the really tasty post-workout treat."

Mr. Endless looks a little flushed when he returns. However, judging by how far the staff locker room is from the gym goer's lockers that was out in the open (possibly to prevent theft and sexual harassment), as well as any additional effort he may have made in finding clean clothes that are in Hob's size, Hob thinks he got back pretty quickly.

The sight of him slightly flushed makes Hob think naughty thoughts though, which he quickly dispels from his mind. He doesn't have the right to think about Mr. Endless like that, especially after the man went through all this trouble just so Hob would feel comfortable going home.

Still. He wonders what would have happened if he had both the courage and the confidence to wear the clothes Jo bought for him.

Would Mr. Endless...

He viciously cuts the thought off before it could fully form. No. Absolutely not.

Mr. Endless would have felt nauseous at seeing his rolls and body hair and just...general unattractiveness. Hob wouldn't need to email him about quitting because the man himself would drop him as soon as he could, like a hot (temperature-wise) and very unappealing potato.

"Here," Dream says as he hands Professor Gadling a set of clean clothes. In the bundle is a black shirt, a black letterman jacket with the number 03 on it, and black joggers. All of them belong to Dream, and everyone, especially his siblings and the rest of the staff, is going to know that these are his clothes as soon as they see the number 03. "You will have to go commando, but it's definitely preferable to what your sister intended for you to wear."

Professor Gadling looks so grateful and Dream wants to mark him up, this time with his own teeth. Let everyone see Professor Gadling wearing his clothes and his teeth marks, even his boyfriend who lent him this hoodie, whoever he is. "Thank you so much," he says. "And yes. Lord knows I shouldn't subject anyone to the sight of me in that. I'll drive all the gym goers away and then Endless Gym would have to close."

Dream really, absolutely hates how Professor Gadling thinks of himself as unattractive. Is it because his boyfriend tells him that? Is that why Professor Gadling signed up for training in the first place?

Well, whoever he is, he better be prepared because Dream is ready and raring to beat him into a pulp the moment Professor Gadling even implies that his lack of self-esteem is caused by his boyfriend spouting lies about his beautiful body.

Were Dream allowed to freely speak his mind, he would say that if Professor Gadling did don the clothes his sister intended for him to wear, he would no doubt cause multiple accidents due to gym goers losing their concentration: dropping weights on their feet and tripping on the treadmills, not to mention the injuries he would cause in the future, when Dream would casually arrange little minor accidents to those he caught drooling at his lovely future boyfriend.

But because he is still Professor Gadling's trainer and therefore need to have some semblance of control and professionalism, what he says instead is, "I don't think such a thing will happen. And please, feel free to keep those clothes if you wish."

"Oh!" Professor Gadling exclaims. "I absolutely shouldn't. I'll wash them after and return them to you on our next session."

Dream smiles. He's very stubborn, too. "If you do that, I will simply put them in your locker so you will have an extra set of clothes if your sister decides to swap your clean set again."

Hob blushes as soon as Mr. Endless hands him the bundle of clothing, and feels even more flustered when, after showering, he holds them in his arms and smells a hint of Mr. Endless's own scent on them.

He really is so kind and generous and considerate and Hob is so very quickly falling in love with him.

Hob is walking past the gym's cafe after getting dressed when he sees Mr. Endless ordering what looks like a pineapple smoothie. He walks over and nods politely to both the staff member behind the counter and Mr. Endless when both men turn to look at him.

The male staff member quickly walks towards the blender to fulfill Mr. Endless's order, however, and so the two of them are left alone to converse freely.

"Thank you for lending me your clothes, Mr. Endless," Hob tells him, all-smiles. The clothes fit him perfectly, and the fabric feels good on his skin.

There is an undecipherable look in Mr. Endless's eyes. Hob hopes he's not mad. He looks really intense. "I see they fit you well."

Hob laughs. "I was surprised, too! Thank you very much for finding ones that are in my size. This jacket is especially lovely." He rubs his hand over the fabric of the jacket's sleeve, which really does have a nice texture to it.

"I'm glad you like it," Mr. Endless says. "And I hope that this means you are considering keeping it?"

Hob ducks his head to hide his embarrassing lovesick smile. He'd love to, actually. He'll take it off as soon as he gets home and press his face against it, hoping to smell what little remains of Mr. Endless's scent, and how their scents mix together. "Maybe."

"Then it is yours," Mr. Endless says. It might be Hob's delusional imagination, but Mr. Endless looks fond as he looks at him. His heart is beating so fast. If he doesn't leave soon, he may just do the unthinkable and kiss Mr. Endless in front of the poor staff member behind the bar, as well as a couple of random gym goers peacefully eating their salads in the background.

"Oh," Professor Gadling says softly. "Really? You mean that?"

Dream wasn't wrong in his assumption. The man does look good wearing his clothes. And for him to go out of his way just to show Dream how well they fit before he leaves...

Dream wants to tear his own clothes off him and just give him another set after.

"I do, Professor Gadling," he says. "I only say what I mean, and I would love for you to keep them. At home or in your locker, as long as your sister doesn't hide them from you and replace your clean change of clothes again."

"I will care for them well," Professor Gadling vows sincerely. Dream has no doubt that he will. But this is only the first of many clothes that Dream is planning on giving him. In fact, Dream could already envision his own closet at home, interspersed with Professor Gadling's clothes, and the man himself wearing Dream's clothes to bed. Dream is going to let him steal all his hoodies after they burn his ex's hoodies. He's going to spoil him rotten with pretty lingerie so he'll never have to go commando ever again. "Shall I see you in a couple of days for our next session?"

Dream could think of no one else belonging in his life as a romantic partner other than Professor Gadling. He smiles and barely prevents himself from leaning forward and giving the man's delicious-looking lips a chaste peck before he has to leave. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

#personal trainer dream au #your honor they need to chill tf out #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #5800 plus words motherfucker what #good job my thumbs #the rest of my fingers also contributed so 👏👏👏#matthew: boss pls i'm just trying to make you a smoothie here #other gym goers in the gym's cafe: really? right in front of our salads?#I was thinking what this AU's title is going to be if I put it on AO3 and my brain said 'Let's Get Physical' 😂#now I don't know about that but it certainly made me laugh #i'm sorry for laughing miss olivia newton-john 🙇‍♀️

228 notes · View notes